Arx
by Melantha963
Summary: Justice is their only law, and together they serve justice with the best of their abilities. Their reasons and means to do so is another matter entirely. Human AU. Loads and loads of characters. May end up being trope overdosed. First fanfic. Rated T for... well, you'll see if you read.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Prologue  
**Just another Day at Work

**New York – 2045 hours**

They were running. They didn't even know what they were running from. They could try, but that would mean risking getting their brains blown out by the seemingly never-ending barrage of bullets. The backside of their van was already mangled enough as it is; there's no need to add pinkish stains to the list of damages. Besides, what would the others say if they saw that CPZ's most elite team has a pinkish vehicle? The _horror_.

Private nearly screamed when he saw the van heading straight towards a signpost. He clenched his eyelids shut, trying to erase the image of a yellow rhombus with black block letters from his mind. If he was going to die in a car crash, the last thing he wanted to see is a 'slow down' sign. '_Fate is cruel_,' he thought.

Thankfully the impact never came as Skipper forcefully wrenched the wheel out of his aggravated lieutenant's gloved hands. The genius was driving fueled by blind adrenaline, and by referring to the knowledge he gained from watching a lot of crime dramas on HBO, people who drive like that rarely end up with more than two unscathed limbs. Therefore as a good leader, he felt compelled to prevent their certain death. That and he didn't want to join Manfredi and Johnson just yet. There were promises he still had to keep, both to the dead and the living.

"Keep it together, soldier!" The black-haired man barked, throwing the wheel to the right before straightening the vehicle's course again. "Kowalski, options! _Good_ options, mind you; I won't take shitty suggestions."

The scientist drew in deep breaths – in, out, in, out. He fixed his tie, trying to calm down. It was working, but he knew that his current state of mind won't last long if he wasn't on the wheel. _'I just have to deal with it,' _he thought glumly, whipping his iconic clipboard out. He noticed that it was a little chipped at the edges, probably due to the fact that he had carelessly dropped it when they hurriedly scrambled into the black van to avoid getting shot at. "If my approximation is right we are currently only a few kilometers away from _the_ patisserie. If we hurry and take a shortcut through the dead end we could take refuge there and—"

"And risk destroying the wall, or this van. Or us. That dead end is there for a reason, Kowalski! I thought we agreed not to involve civilians in this anymore – we've just had this discussion yesterday!"

Kowalski growled in exasperation. "Skipper, please, the HQ is at the other side of the town. The car has already taken damage; a wall is no more dangerous than bullets. My calculation says we'll be just fine, save a few bruises and scratches and the like." He sighed. "And it's _Roger_. We dump the van, camp out under the cashier, maybe nab a few snacks, then we leave some cash in the morning, as usual. He wouldn't mind, he said so himself."

"_I_ mind, even if Roger doesn't. And as leader, I say we head back to HQ to finish the job!"

"You may be leader, but I'm head of strategy and as head of strategy, I say the best strategy is to go to Roger."

The other member of the team, who had mostly been silent throughout the chase, decided to risk it and stuck his head out of the back window for a quick peek of the vehicles behind them. The wind swooshed past his hair, messing up his raven spikes. "'Ey're gai'ng, 'ippah!"

"Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious, Rico! We can totally _not_ hear the sirens from here!" Sirens, right. Of course it was the police; no criminal would be stupid enough to chase them while blaring annoying horns.

Rico pouted. It wasn't the best time to pout, but he never had good timing in the first place. He had risked getting his head blasted off his shoulders only for his effort to be repaid with sarcasm. He then decided that he'd just stay put. That'll show them how angry he is.

"You may be head of strategy, but I'm leader and as leader I— give me back my wheel!"

"_Your _wheel, Skipper? You took it from me and therefore it is rightfully _my_ wheel."

"Don't look at me! Don't look at me when we argue, look at the road! Look at the _goddamn_—"

Private's shrill shriek filled the van as it swerved left and right while Skipper and Kowalski wrestled each other for control over the wheel. _'Please don't crash please don't crash please don't crash!' _The sixteen-year-old has yet to open his eyes since he saw the 'slow down' sign in fear of seeing another one if he opens them. Oh, how he hated signposts! He considered requesting a mission to obliterate the city from the metal monstrosities.

Momentarily distracted by the young boy's scream, Skipper lost the wheel to Kowalski's stubborn grip. He turned, glaring at the youngest member of the team. "Yes, go ahead and yell at _me_ while the mad genius has his fun with the wheels! I'm always the one to blame when things go wrong, huh? Tell me what to do then, go on!"

Private's eyes brimmed with tears as his panicking brain processed that Skipper had just _yelled_ at him. He looked up at the leader with wide, glassy eyes, biting his lower lip to keep it from trembling. "Sorry Skippah..."

The leader immediately regretted his words when he saw the boy's terrified form. Shaking his head, he directed his gaze towards the empty street in front of them instead. Making up with Private will have to wait until they're all back in HQ, safe and sound. _'Right now,' _He glared at the man beside him, burning rubber while giggling madly like a stalker with a crush._ 'I've got a crazy driver to take care of.'_

With a valiant battle cry, Skipper jumped at his lieutenant. It was evident that he was putting his best efforts into making the man drop his control over the wheel, and for the good of the team at that. However to the passengers at the middle row it only seemed like the two people in the front row were trying to get them all killed. Private was bawling in pure terror as the van crashed repeatedly into trash cans (not signposts, thankfully, the boy tearfully thanked the Father). Rico was still pouting, despite screaming gleefully in the back of his mind. It's been eons since the last time he rode a roller coaster, and this was definitely better than anything he went on before!

"For the last time, Kowalski, we are _not _going to Roger's café, and that's an order!"

"It's patisserie_. _And we're going there whether you like it or not."

"Is that _insubordination_ I hear? Don't make me pull rank on you, soldier!"

Kowalski laughed as he used his foot to rotate the wheel, making the van take an impossibly sharp turn. "_You_ pull rank on _me_? Skipper, we weren't even from the same part of the force! And I was one rank higher than you; it doesn't matter that you were with the marines and I'm in the army. The only reason I'm your lieutenant right now is because we're not in service anymore. So technically, you can't pull rank on me at all."

All of a sudden, the van lurched upwards, then upside down, then back to its original position. Private screamed his lungs out during the whole process. Judging from the blaring alarms and the fact that someone had just yelled "my car", it would seem that they had (finally) hit a car. It was a wonder it's the first car they hit that night.

Skipper let out a feral growl. "That's it! No more driving, you insane danger addict!"

Grabbing his SIC's collar, he threw the man to the middle row with all his might. The tuxedo-clad man didn't bother to see whether Kowalski landed on Rico or Private or the floor; what mattered to him right now is to get the van down the road and straight to the HQ. When Skipper looked out the heavily cracked windshield, however, he discovered that somehow the bespectacled man had managed to drive them all the way to the corner of the road where Roger's store was. He glared one last time at his lieutenant before scrambling out of the vehicle.

Kowalski chuckled from his place on Rico's lap. "I thought Rico is the danger addict here?"

The weapons expert merely rolled his eyes at the remark. All he knew was the incredibly fun ride was over and they all had to get out of there before the NYPD finally tracked down the van's location. Seeing that the scientist was still disoriented, the half Latin man made it his own job to carry him and the unconscious Private out. Speaking of Private, the poor child was probably traumatized for life.

While Rico lugged Kowalski and Private out, Skipper had unlocked the back door of Roger's store. He silently thanked whatever it was Julien worshiped if they were indeed real, for the lack of blood that night; blood would've made it harder for them to move around and easier for the police to track them down. He held the door open for Rico to pass through before he followed suit and locked the door from inside. Twice, for good measure.

The slightly tanned man motioned for Rico to take the rest of his team to wherever they wanted to camp out the night. Before he joined them there's something he needed to check, lest Mason chews him out when they get back.

Skipper tentatively checked his body for any possible inner injury. He was not a medic, but at least he could tell if he had a broken bone. He sighed in relief when he found that he was mostly unscathed, safe a few scratches and bruises and the like. _'Just like Kowalski said.'_ he mused. Speaking of Kowalski, he had decided then and there that he would have Private teach the man some driving etiquette. _'He's been hanging around Rico too much,'_ Skipper thought, shaking his head. _'Madmen.'_

He reached into one of the pockets on the underside of his open jacket for the item their team was sent to retrieve – the reason they were all here, feeling like a pinch of salt in a cup of day-old coffee getting turned over for the rest of the day. That makes the coffee two days old. But the point is they all felt like crap. Adrenaline factor aside, chases are always tiring no matter who's driving, or backseat driving, or passenger seat driving. Now his mind was getting off track on its own and he was starting to think that the space squids have installed a mind control device somewhere in the would have to make it their next mission to dismantle every alien technology they could find and have Kowalski analyze them for future references.

Playing with the sleek red USB drive in his gloved hand, Skipper headed off towards the room at the back where he knew Roger kept a computer. According to what their handler, Burt, had said, the device contained alleged information of three CPZ teams: the Penguins, the Lemurs and the Simians. Who the USB drive belonged to, they didn't know. All they wanted is to get rid of the information. Skipper powered the CPU on and plugged the drive in. While he waited, he kept wondering; how on earth did the owner of this alleged information get any intel on them anyway? The Lemurs he could understand, and his own team could be careless in their own right, but the Simians? Mason and Phil weren't field agents, and neither were Bada and Bing unless they were really necessary to a mission. They never really went out of the HQ, so unless the culprit was an inside agent, information leak is almost impossible. And the last inside man they rooted out… let's just say that the unfortunate guy would forever smell like formaldehyde in one of Kowalski's jars.

Once the computer was ready, Skipper immediately accessed the drive. There was only one file in it, in the form of a video. The man was a little taken aback. He had expected a word file – everyone expected a word file; even Mason and Kowalski, who usually thought of everything. Unsure but curious, he double clicked the file and let it play. He bit his lower lip as the video player popped out. As if word files weren't bad enough, video files are even worse. You could learn much more about a person if you see him in action instead of read about him. The owner of this information, whoever he was, must be a very resourceful person if he could get a recording of them.

The video started playing, and much to Skipper's surprise, only showed the static view of the front porch of a bar somewhere in New York, with occasional horns blaring and lights glowing here and there. _'Wait a sec… isn't that Dave's Tavern? What the deuce does Dave's Tavern have anything to do with— oh. OH.'_

Skipper felt his cheeks starting to redden as he watched three people he was very familiar with stumble out of the club, drunk and piling on each other like it's their business. Soon after that, Maurice and Mason stormed out of the building, seemingly normal but the slight irregularity in their steps told him that they had a decent amount of alcohol in their bloodstream. They were yelling at Rico, Julien and Phil, the formerly mentioned drunken trio, presumably about their extreme alcoholism and how dangerous it could be. See, that's another sign that the two prim-and-proper-gentlemen weren't so innocent either. They never yell unless they were tampered with. Skipper himself remembered perfectly where the rest of his team was during the same night. Nearly all CPZ agents were at the club that night, celebrating Julianuary after a series of desperate pleas from Julien. Bada and Bing were fighting in the club, causing a lot of collateral damage. His own team aside from Rico was busy being drunk on stage, belting out a song he couldn't recall. And Mort was out ruling the dance floor like a pro. He chuckled, remembering the angry call they got from Eric later, telling them to hightail it out of there before the cops found out they brought not one but _two_ minors to a club.

He theorized that a police officer who had been nonchalantly checking the feeds from street cameras must have recognized one of their faces (probably Rico, he was the one who had most contact with their enemy) and showed the video to the authorities, alerting their NYPD mole, who passed the information down to Tom and Eric, who then told Burt, who told his team to take care of the problem. The info on the owner of the USB drive probably got lost somewhere in the middle of the chain. He was betting on Burt.

'_Well this isn't intel at all,' _Skipper snorted inwardly. _'This is blackmail!' _Which is actually far worse. Good thing whoever owned this wasn't a dangerous person._ 'Oh well, if they're desperate enough to consider anything they could get their hands on as 'intel', I suppose we have yet to be compromised.' _The man decided that the rest of the video weren't worth his time and powered the computer off. Skipper headed off towards where he knew his men were camping the night out, intent on joining them.

On his way, the man noted that the fridge was untouched. No snacks tonight then.

...

**A/N: **My first Penguins fanfic. I've been in love with them for some time, and then I got this idea. Now before you lot pelt me with stones of accusation about our beloved flightless birds being OOC, I'd like to say that everything is intentional. I won't say why, but you're free to shout out your guess.

** if you don't give a shit about warnings, skip this **

I planned this to be a pretty long fic, so if any of you guys decide to follow through, I have a few warnings about this fic that I want to give you.

First, there will be a lot of mood whiplash, so don't be surprised if it started out light, then got depressing as hell, then switched back to being relatively light before going all serious again. Also, various degrees of insane troll logic and beating around the bush will appear throughout the story. Please be patient with me.

Second, all characters will be relatively OOC. As I have stated, there is a reason to this, and I won't say why. Read to find out.

Third, there are little to no OCs in this fic. If they appear, they will only do so because they are necessary to the plot. There will be several characters who seem to be OCs, but are just modified in-universe characters. You will find a good lot of these later. If I think an OC has overstayed his/her welcome, I'll kill him/her off. No exceptions, even if it's someone the readers have turn attached to.

Fourth, the length of each chapter will depend on my mood. Updates will not be regular, but I assure you I won't abandon this fic. Ever. Not after all the hard work I put into it.

Fifth, there will be a fair amount of Call Back, Call Forward and Foreshadowing. Didn't get it? You need to browse more TV Tropes. Speaking of tropes, I will employ a ton of them, so don't complain if this fic gets Trope Overdosed.

Sixth, if you're here for romance, I suggest you press the back button. You will find a miniscule amount of that in here. If I do mention love in the fic, it's probably not eros. Exceptions can be made if the pairing is canon, such as the case with Rico and Miss Perky. But if you decide to interpret it personally, that's fine with me.

I'm proud to announce that this is probably the longest A/N you've ever read. Yay me.


	2. Break In

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter One  
**Break In

**C.P.Z., Inc. Headquarters, New York – 0422 hours**

Skipper turned uncomfortably in his bed; the pristine white sheets twisted along with the movement of the restless man, as if portraying the unease within him. He sneaked a quick glance at the clock. _'I've been awake for that long?' _He groaned silently, not wanting to wake the rest of the team. _'Note to self: reduce nightly caffeine intake before 10 o'clock.' _But despite telling himself so, he didn't feel the cause of the problem was the coffee at all.

The silence of the night was perturbed once again by rustling sounds, again caused by bed sheets - only this time they came from the bunk above the slightly tanned man. Curly strands of dark hair poked out from the corner of his vision. It was hard to make out with the lack of light, but Skipper's highly trained eyes made it possible for him to spot the peak of Kowalski's head. The man smiled at his captain, mouthing a silent "hey". Skipper merely nodded at the greeting, noting how different his enigmatic second-in-command looked when he wasn't wearing his glasses.

Kowalski's pale skin looked ghastly in the dim lighting. The unkempt mop of curly black hair made the Polish man seem even more spectral and otherworldly. The set was completed with a pair of lapis lazuli eyes with a soul-piercing gaze and a disturbingly serene smile. If Skipper didn't know better, he'd say the man in front of him right now was an outright ghost.

If it were possible, he'd rather have Kowalski _not _wear his glasses at all. Everyone agreed the style was extremely outdated. Then again Mason wore a bronze monocle. Ugh.

"Can't sleep, Skipper?" The scientist asked. He had coincidentally woken up when he heard the rustling of the sheets below him. It reminded him of the old times, back in high school when he stayed in a quaint apartment. His roommate would often wake up at night, then wake _him _up so they could both go to their makeshift lab. "Would you like some milk? It helps in inducing sleep."

Skipper cringed. " Thanks, but I don't like milk. Go back to sleep, Kowalski."

Kowalski grinned cheekily, giving his leader a look. "I can't. You woke me up."

Skipper sighed. The black tee he slept in was practically stuck to his back. He swung his legs down the edge of his bed, his bare feet connecting with the chilly floor. He relished the biting feel until his skin got used to the temperature, glancing up at the man resting above him. "Come on, soldier. You know what I said about wasting your hours."

Kowalski laughed lightly, climbing down the bunk bed to join his commander who had already disappeared into the corridor that led to the living room. They were silent and careful in moving, not wanting to disturb the younger members of their team. The two men didn't bother using the chairs, instead opting to sit on the table. Despite Skipper's remark about milk, Kowalski went to the fridge to grab two bottles of the pearly white emulsion. Skipper rolled his eyes. Insubordination is certainly becoming one of his second-in-command's defining traits. _'If only he could be as obedient as Rico.'_

Kowalski nonchalantly popped open the aluminum lid of the glass bottle, absently observing the murky underlay of the clear material. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Skipper narrowed his eyes. "About what?"

"What kept you awake."

"Too much coffee."

A flat hum was Kowalski's only answer as he took a gulp of milk. Skipper scratched his nape. "Okay, so it's not _just_ the coffee. But still, half the reason." He smiled when the scientist shot him a look. "Honest."

Kowalski set the bottle down, licking his lips to clear it off the remaining white substance. "You do realize I'm not the best person to trust your dark, beany secrets with."

"The way you say it made it sound like you know everything," Skipper sneered. "It's a wonder you actually admitted that, what with your huge ego."

Kowalski grinned. "Well, it is barely four in the morning. Detoxification messes with judgment, I suppose."

Skipper took a deep breath and exhaled long enough for Kowalski to take another swig from his bottle, fixing his tired gaze on the clock. 13 minutes have passed since Kowalski woke up. He looked back towards the pajama-clad man. "We should go back to sleep."

"It's only been a few moments."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Without mucus, your stomach would digest itself."

"Tell me something else I don't know. Something less... disturbing."

"Rico has a tattoo on his back."

Skipper suddenly felt more alert. "He does?"

Kowalski shrugged. "Saw it when patching him up from the accident last week, at the bottom corner of his right shoulder plate. I couldn't really make out the image since that area was one of the more damaged ones." He took one last swig of milk before setting the empty glass bottle down. "Knowing Rico however, I'd say it was just another of his unexplainable acts of devotion towards Miss Perky."

Skipper regarded the information solemnly as he rested his arms on his hips. His white pants felt silky against his skin, which was weird because last time he checked he never bought silk clothing. Although Kowalski's guess was highly probable, there was no reason he couldn't ask the owner of the tattoo himself. After all, cross-checking intel is important.

His train of thought was broken when he felt a shift on the table weight. He watched as Kowalski stood up and marched in the direction of the lab, taking the second bottle of milk with him. So the disgusting liquid wasn't for him after all. "I thought you wanted to talk?"

The scientist paused in his steps, looking back towards his commander. A wide grin blossomed on the man's pale face. "Have I not done that?" He replied with an eerily teasing tone before continuing on his way.

Skipper sat like a statue on the table, waiting for the telltale sound of the sliding laboratory door. He only returned to his bunk after he heard it close. As the man climbed back onto his bed, he couldn't help but feel that the smile Kowalski gave him looked almost demonic in that particular lighting. Skipper shut his eyelids and drifted off into slumber.

_..._

Skipper groaned as he rolled out of bed. Even the simplest of tasks become cumbersome when you don't feel like getting up. He absently thought of sleeping pills as the faint sound of sizzling flame told him that Kowalski was still in the lab, probably welding metal for his next mad invention. He gingerly let his foot touch the floor, the feeling of biting cold no longer pleasurable like it was before. Maybe he should reconsider getting carpeted flooring for their quarters. Concrete isn't exactly the most comfortable material for floors.

He spared the bunk bed across him a glance. Both Private and Rico were still snuggling in the comfortable heat of their blankets. Skipper smiled as he remembered how they fought for the one leftover blanket the Lemur team didn't need. When they acquired it, they realized there were four of them and only one blanket. The problem was solved by Rico, who ripped the large cloth in two and took one for himself while handing the other piece over to Private. The two superior officers decided to go along with the arrangement right then and there.

A playful smirk slipped onto Skipper's face as an idea developed in his mind. He slowly walked over to the sleeping duo, watching his steps to prevent himself from stumbling over the papers and crayons Private had left on the floor around their bunk. He silently reminded himself to reprimand the young boy about it later, and maybe put the whole team through extra discipline exercises too while he's at it. If anyone calls him out on harshness, he'll blame it on sleep-deprivation.

All hail excuses.

The edge of Private's blanked was bunched up in his strong grip as Skipper prepared to splash the proverbial cold water onto his sleeping subordinate's face. With a heave, he flung the warm grey cloth off Private's curled up body and yelled on top of his lungs.

"MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY!"

Private's previously relaxed body suddenly straightened. He sat up almost instantly, bleary eyes shooting around wildly as he shouted back unintelligible gibberish; the boy's mind was forcing him to respond, however the difference between his state of mind and his body resulted only in corporal dysfunctionality.

Skipper took a step back, setting his gaze on the boy's form. Bedhead, check. Sleepshirt, check. Pouty face, check. '_Oh, that's cute.'_

It took a few moments for the young private to do his morning rituals - rub his eyes, stretch out like a cat, yawn like a lion. It amazed Skipper how such a young boy, who had everything he could've wanted, chose to come here and live the life of a vigilante like the rest of them.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," Private huffed, glaring at the superior officer with his big blue eyes while using his hands to matt out his dark hair. "Good morning, Skippah. Next time you want to wake me up, please at least make up a better lie. Our handbook says there is no emergency unless the alarms—"

The sound of sirens blaring suddenly echoed throughout the facility; rotating lights installed above the doors flooded their quarters with red rays. Skipper and Private shared a freaked out look while Rico, who had been fast asleep on the top bunk was immediately wide awake and had dropped down next to Skipper with two sidearms, a machine gun and two flash bangs in his hands. Skipper recovered first, grabbing one of the two handguns Rico had procured before dashing towards the living room. Private took the other handgun on reflex and followed his leader out of their quarters. Meanwhile Rico was pacifying an annoyed Kowalski, who was now dangerously tutting a carbine while muttering death threats against whatever made him lose focus over his experiment. The duo later joined their commander and youngest teammate at the corridor that connected their quarters to the HQ's main lobby.

Upon arrival, they saw that most of their colleagues were already there, still half-asleep, and everyone was still in their night clothes. Had it not been an emergency, the sight of adults in pajamas carrying firearms and other incendiaries would have been more humorous. Oddly enough, Maurice was present without Julien and Mort by his side.

"Mort was in the middle of a bath," The black-haired teenager explained hastily when asked where the rest of Team Lemur were. "I think Julien was trying to get him out of the— don't look at me like that! How am I supposed to know why he was taking a bath so early? It's _Mort_, for Pete's sake!"

Skipper was trying to assess the situation when a man in brown pajamas suddenly approached him. "What on earth is going on?!"

"That's what I'm asking myself right now," He replied bluntly, cocking his gun while his eyes searched around the room. "Go back to your team, Mason. They need you to stay calm."

The brunet sighed in resignation and went back to wherever the other members of Team Simia were. Now that the topic was brought to mind, he wondered where the Baboon trio was. If he didn't know them better, he'd say they were busy applying their make up; but Darla and her girls weren't those kinds of girls, so something must be holding them up. It was somewhat alarming since the aforementioned trio were one of CPZ's best rapid response party.

The noise was abruptly silenced when two men marched into the lobby. Skipper instinctively saluted, followed by his men. "Tom, Eric."

"Skipper," the former greeted back while the other simply gave the team leader a brisk nod. "Don't worry, we'll get this under control."

"Appreciated," the team captain replied, setting his gun down. "An emergency is an emergency, but too much noise will attract attention."

Tom smiled at the shorter man while Eric was busy yelling at particularly panicked people to pipe the hell down. "Always prioritizing safety, aren't you, Skipper? We should promote you to security director one of these days."

"And where would _they_ be without me?"

Tom stared into the man's eyes. "Where would _you_ be without them?"

The question was left unanswered when the brunette was grabbed by his companion, who demanded that he explain the situation to the crowd. "Let's reinitiate the discipline program," Eric said sourly. "They're getting out of hand."

"I'll take care of this." Tom motioned for his friend to go. The brown-haired man faced his employees, giving them a lazy smirk. "Alright people, calm down; I know this seems like an emergency—"

"_Isn't it?!_"

"—but it's not. Let me finish, Becky. Before you lot accuse me of holding an unannounced drill, I'd like to say that we had a security breach."

"Excuse me," Mason interrupted. "But is it the same manner of security breach that happened in the previous two months?"

Tom scratched his chin. "I guess it is..."

The gathered people immediately went into an uproar again. Skipper pushed Rico behind him, not wanting any fingers pointed at his soldier, while the larger man tried to hide behind the commander. Private shot them a worried look. Kowalski looked like he couldn't care less.

"Another one?! That's ridiculous!"

"This one better not be Burt's fault again."

"_Hey_! I take offense to that."

"Oh, shut up Burt!"

Tom sighed at the sight of the unruly crowd. He was starting to forget the reason why he and Eric founded the organization again, not sure if the results were worth all the stress. "People, please. You _don't _want me angry at this time of the day. Hear me out for a while and I promise I'll let the lot of you hug the sheets until 8!"

The noise died down as quickly as it rose up as the people considered the luxury of sleeping in. At normal circumstances there would be harsh consequences for members who don't wake up on time, like revoked rights to free breakfast or heated bathwater. But now the head of the corporation himself was going to let all of them sleep in _and_ get away with it scot-free. As if they were going to miss this chance!

Convinced that he had pacified the crowd, the middle-aged man continued, "We have secured the culprits. The alarms were activated by an unauthorized attempt to access the mess hall, courtesy of the same people." He nodded to the three busty women behind him, signaling them to move forward. "Darla, if you'd please?"

The tallest of the three smirked as she moved to the center of the room, flanked by the her two subordinates. The clacking of 3-inch heels stopped, followed up by the sound of body bags being dropped onto the marble floor. Those with sharper ears would notice muffled shouts coming from inside the dull grey canvas bags, meaning the contents were still alive.

_'Not for long,' _Skipper thought, looking at the crowd._ 'Not if they get what they want.'_

Darla unzipped the first body bag and swiftly yanked it upwards, dropping their first prisoner onto the cold floor. It was a fairly young woman with shoulder-length brown hair and vivid eyes, wearing a modest black tee with 'I Heart Asia' printed on the front in white block letters. The tied-up lady glared at the tanned woman who had freed her from the uncomfortable cocoon, looking unhappy at the rough treatment. Darla merely grinned as a reply, batting her pale eyelashes at the female. The other two Latina copied the actions of their leader, releasing the rest of the captured people; an unnaturally pale lady who bore resemblance to the first and a boyish-looking one who kept trying to squirm her way out of the steel cables that kept the three of them immobile.

Bada scoffed from his place behind Phil. "This is the reason why we were called?" He didn't look too amused. "Civilians." Rico glared at the remark. What's wrong with being a civilian?

"They made us miss our morning fruit platter!" Bing exclaimed, stomping his foot like a child.

"The racket made me pour water on caesium," Kowalski grumbled unhappily, gesturing at his blackened labcoat. "This is what happens when you do that. And ingredients cost money."

"Then let's make 'em _pay_!"

Agreements were cried as guns were cocked, blades were unsheathed and brass knuckles were equipped. Eric had returned and stood next to Tom, who was watching the scene unfold from the side with an entertained look.

Eric frowned. "Shouldn't we stop them?"

Tom spared his blonde friend a glance before returning his gaze to the crowd. "Nah."

"They're going to tear those girls apart."

"No, they won't."

"Sometimes I wonder how you can put so much trust in these people."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Don't you?"

"It doesn't matter that we own the place. Some of them shouldn't even still be alive. They're all dangerous, down to the smallest kid."

"I know," Tom said flatly. "But I like to believe in the best of people. Even them."

Eric sighed. "I'm guessing that's why you get along with Antonio so much."

"Great minds think alike." Tom remarked as they watched their 'employees' point their weapons at the girls in the middle of the room.

The mob was ready to launch bullets into their prisoners when a loud call was heard.

"WAIT!"

Everyone stopped for a second to look in the general direction of the voice. Some people started to whine with impatience as they wanted to pull the trigger as soon as possible. A moment later, a white-haired man pushed his way to the center of the crowd, followed by a soaked twelve-year-old who giggled with every step he took. Skipper groaned when he saw who it was. "Can't this wait, Ringtail?!"

"No no, you are not being understanding!" The man flailed his arms wildly, a strange accent thick in his voice. "You see," He pointed at one of the prisoners, kicking the wet boy at the same time. "The king knows this woman."

"You know them, Julien?" Maurice asked.

Julien wagged his fingers at his right-hand man, clacking his tongue in frustration. "No, I do not know who _them_ are, but! I know _this_ woman." He clarified, gesturing at the brunette in the black tee. The dark-skinned man nonchalantly ripped off the tape that covered her mouth, ignoring the indignant cries from the crowd behind him. "You, woman; tell these silly people that the king is telling the truth."

The mob fell silent for a while, all curious with how she would respond to Julien's order.

The brunette in question gave the African man a glare. "First of all, it's Marlene, not 'woman'. Second of all, I can't believe _this_ is where you end up being! Do you have any idea how long everyone looked for you after you disappeared at graduation?! I knew you were a delinquent, but I didn't think you'd go this far, _Julien_." She said, spitting the man's name out in distaste.

"Delinquent?!" The thin man cried dramatically. "The king was not being a delinquent! I don't even know what that means."

"It means—" Private started but was cut short by multiple glares. "—never mind."

"So, Ringtail," Skipper said, twirling the gun in his hand. "You know each other. How is that significant to what's going on right now?" The American man paused, frowning. "Unless... y_ou _were the one who routed them here."

Murmurs spread within the crowd, questioning Skipper's guess. Maurice's eyes widened with horror, fearing what could happen to his leader while Mort obliviously danced around the three prisoners, dripping water everywhere. Julien simply laughed at the accusation while Marlene blanched. "Are you crazy?! I don't even know about this place! And even if I do, he would be the last person I'd take directions from. All we did was follow _that _suspicious man here. Now let us go; we didn't do anything wrong!"

"Didn't do anything wrong?" The man in the black tee shook his head. "Woman—"

"_Marlene._"

"—you breached our security, gained intel you weren't supposed to, attempted unauthorized entry to the mess hall—"

"How am I supposed to know that door leads to the kitchen?"

"—and, assuming what you said is true, followed one of our men into this place. Which, I believe, is one of the issues that will be dealt with this month. I'm looking at you, Burt."

The burly half-French at the corner of the room felt like he wanted to disappear into a hole.

"So, _woman_," Skipper continued, deliberately emphasising the last word. "Even if you and your pals are innocent, we couldn't just let you loose topside anymore. I think you get where we're coming from."

"B-But..." Marlene stuttered, shocked from the revelation of what will happen to them. "How could you! You can't just take our lives away like that!" She shouted, eyes brimming with tears. "Arlene was right; you're all criminals on the run, aren't you? If I'm going to die here, my last wish is for this place to be found out by the government so justice can be served!"

"Ted," Skipper called out, ignoring Marlene's words. "Do your job, please." Julien smiled as Skipper called their private funeral director. He cheerfully waved a goodbye at Marlene before going to stand beside Maurice, kicking Mort's head along the way. He loved watching Ted do his work; it was always so pretty and red.

A tall Caucasian who had been silently standing next to Burt walked forward and stopped right behind Skipper, a rifle held firmly in his hands. Some people call him Executioner; personally, he preferred Undertaker. Executioner seemed rather harsh. And besides, he was doing these people a favor. If you ask him, dying is better than what most of the other members would do to prisoners. Ted poised his trademark weapon against his shoulder, readying himself.

"So sorry miss," He muttered, placing his finger on the trigger. "But this is my job."

But before Ted could pull the trigger, a shot rang out and Marlene's torso fell against the marble floor. The other two prisoners watched the scene play out with horror-stricken faces, thinking their friend was dead. However, this appeared to not be the case as the mob suddenly became noisy, asking each other who had fired. But the noise was lost on Ted, who stood like a statue with his gaze rested on the unconscious girl on the floor. The feeling was unexplainable, but somehow he felt relieved he did not have to pull the trigger this time. He gently lowered his rifle and quietly returned to his former spot, thanking whoever had spared him from taking another life. Even if it was a one-time-only chance, it was enough.

Kowalski marched up to Marlene's body and rolled it over so that she was on her stomach. The dark-haired man frowned when he saw a miniscule needle stuck at the base of her neck. Carefully pulling it out with gloved fingers, the inventor stared at the item for a few moments before turning to face one of the corporation's founders. "Care to explain, Tom?"

All eyes were instantly upon the middle-aged man. Tom smiled sheepishly, trying to hide the gun he had been holding behind his back. "Well, I just thought it would be a shame for such a _lovely_ lady to have her flames put out."

"_That _is a shame?" Julien exclaimed. "The king is not happy with the lack of crying and pretty red flowers. Now _that_ is a shame."

Eric raised an eyebrow. He was curious as to how Kowalski found out it was Tom, but right now there's a more pressing issue at hand. "Tom, these girls are an official threat to the company. They have to be silenced."

"Last time I checked the dictionary, 'silenced' is not a synonym for 'killed'." Tom said, taking his gun out from behind his back - no point in trying to hide it anymore, right? He shot twice at the rest of the prisoners, not bothering to check if his tranq needles made their way to his intended targets. He coached sharpshooting for a reason. "Besides, I've been thinking we need more female members. I was actually going to say this at the usual announcement in the mess hall, but I might as well do it here."

"You're not seriously suggesting we recruit the prisoners?" Maurice asked skeptically. "Look at what we did to them. They'll never agree to it, at least not voluntarily."

"I said nothing about it being voluntary." Tom retaliated, clapping his hands twice. "Roy, please escort these ladies to the interrogation room. Kowalski, Mason, you two come with me. The rest of you are dismissed. You have two hours before mess hall is open. Move it!"

The crowd left the main lobby in clusters. Some were confused, some were annoyed, and there were others who didn't care. Skipper couldn't help contemplating Tom's decision, whether it was a wise thing to do or not. The dark-haired man gave his SIC a look that told him to report later before walking back to their quarters, the rest of his team following closely behind.

Once the lobby was cleared of unnecessary people, Eric turned to face his colleague and lowered his voice so only the two of them could hear him, "You said they wouldn't kill her."

"I said they won't tear her apart," Tom replied with a smile. "Clean shots are fair game."

"Then why did you stop them?"

"I was being honest when I said we need more female members, you know. It's in the monthly plan; do you ever read what I send you?"

"You send me so many unimportant things, the important ones look unimportant now."

"Lolcats _are_ important!"

...

**A/N: **This chapter takes place several days after the prologue; that's why they didn't wake up in Roger's patisserie. That was just a taste of what I have in store for you. If anything seemed confusing, don't hesitate to ask. I'd like to credit _chococino _for helping me with this. Her advice gave me many insights, inspirations and ideas. Do check her stories out. Just make sure you know Indonesian. Google Translate is _not_ to be trusted.

Thanks to _A Friend, mary_ and _LoverOfThings _for reviewing. One review alone will make Mort really happy. He feeds on them after all.


	3. Purpose

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter Two  
**Purpose

**C.P.Z., Inc. Headquarters, New York - 0817 hours**

The mess hall clattered with noise from every direction possible. People sat in groups, mostly according to their membership to a team. Some people chose to play by their own rules and sat just about anywhere they wanted. One of the more extreme examples would be Julien, who changed tables everyday regardless of whether his table of choice was being used by other people or not. He had once chose to sit on the food counter, much to the annoyance of everyone else. Joey, a visiting agent from the Australian division, had enough sense to whack the African man so hard he fell to the floor. Nobody felt sorry for him, of course.

Except Mort.

And Maurice, to an extent.

Maybe.

"We have consulted Maurice in regards to the identities of the threats. After an extensive background check, we have identified them as Marlene Doyle, Arlene Doyle and Marilyn Wilde. Students of Virginia College, currently in their first year. Subject Marlene Doyle is related by blood to subject Arlene Doyle in that they were twins. Subject Marilyn Wilde appears to be of close acquaintance to the two previous subjects, judging by the assortment of related footage acquired from hidden cameras VC_EDU03 to VC_EDU16. Records indicate no lawless actions ever conducted by subjects Marlene and Arlene Doyle. Subject Marilyn Wilde, however, is noted to have a streak of public display of violence before—"

"Blah, blah and _blah_, Kowalski. Can you tell me anything important please?"

The strategist exhaled sharply. "Subject Marilyn Wilde's law infractions suggest that she possesses uncommon strength."

Skipper scoffed, cutting into his food. "So she's got strength. We've got Roy, Bada and Bing. Even Burt does the grunt work once in a while. What's the catch?"

"Subject Marilyn Wilde—"

"Stop using 'subject' to address the prisoners; they're not your guinea pigs."

A glare was passed between the two men, each trying to stare the other down. Skipper nibbled on his lip. How many times had this happened? Were they going to endure such teeth-clenched teamwork? When will it all crumble to dust?

He didn't tell anyone, but he was still waiting for the day his lieutenant stabs him— no, stabs _everyone _in the back.

Eventually the lesser in rank relented, breaking eye contact and averting his gaze to the food in front of him. "Prisoner #060508 Marilyn Wilde possesses a body structure comparable to that of Julien's, indicating superior physical abilities and athletic prowess. Due to the prisoner's build and status as a female, the prisoner will be most suitable for infiltration."

Skipper sighed inwardly. That went better than he expected. The dark-haired man shoved some macaroni into his mouth; it was saltier than the usual. "So," he paused to swallow. "You want to sic her on the Lemurs?"

"That is the ideal solution," Kowalski replied, setting his clipboard down next to his plate. He probably should start eating; cold risotto isn't enjoyable. "However, Team Lemur is already composed of high-tier infiltrators; her presence there will be obsolete. Prisoner Marilyn Wilde is also indicated to be in need of constant discipline to maintain damage control."

"And Julien isn't so much a drill sergeant than he is a drama queen."_  
_

"Correct," the scientist pointed his fork at his leader before going back to scooping up rice. "So, as an alternative solution, I think—"

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a tray being dropped carelessly on the table. The two men looked up to see Rico smiling in an apologetic manner. Kowalski scooted over to give his spiky-haired colleague a seat before picking up where he left off. "As I was saying, I think it would be more beneficial to enlist the prisoner into Team Badger."

"That's... kind of random. Why the Badger team?"

"Remember Becky and Stacy?"

Rico, who had been listening to the discussion, shuddered at the mention of the hyperactive girls. They had jumped on him and dragged him around on his first day there. It was horrible.

"Yes, what about them?"

"Well, you know how Antonio managed to rear them in," Kowalski continued. "I have no idea how he does it, but if he can handle the Woolf twins, I'm sure he can handle the prisoner."

The captain rubbed his chin in contempation."If it's about management, isn't Mason better? He takes care of Phil, Bada and Bing."

The curly-haired man cocked an eyebrow. "Are you trying to murder him? He's already busy enough with those three. Considering his job as the head of mission control, I honestly don't think he needs more load added to his still growing pile of stress."

"Fine. What about the other two?"

"I've been in need of test subjects." The team leader shot his lieutenant a glare. He got a grin in response. "But not female test subjects. The screams are far too high-pitched, has a lustful nature to it and often results in being extremely distracting. It does no good to my concentration."

"But I thought you like them screaming."

"Accidentally severing an artery when vivisecting someone is highly inconvenient. You know how hard it is to get blood out of clothes, and I'm steadily running out of clean lab coats. That being said, I believe it would be best to fit all three of them into the same team."

Skipper choked on his coffee. "Now you're trying to kill Antonio. He can't handle _all_ of them."

"I've already talked to him, actually," the Polish man said smugly. "In fact, he was looking forward to having more female members on his team. He also said something about them reminding him of his... sisters. I'm not even aware that he has any."

"And what did Tom and Eric say?"

"He will be talking to them later. After all, I am but the options guy."

Skipper quickly guzzled down what was left of his drink. "_Problemo_ solved, then. Come on, we've got seven minutes before the mess hall is locked. Don't forget morning drill! I've been lenient, but this time I'm going to make sure you go through what you missed all those past mornings. Am I clear?"

A serene smile graced the scientist's features.

"Crystal, sir."

...

Tom raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused. "Is this something you came up with, Antonio?"

"No, sir," the Spaniard said, smiling sheepishly. "It was a suggestion from a friend."

The stocky man chuckled. "Of course. But you did agree to it voluntarily, didn't you? In that case, I see no reason to deny your request. We still have to let the prisoners know, though." Pausing to think, the brunet added. "Would you like to tell them yourself or should I send someone to do it in your place?"

"I would appreciate the latter." Antonio replied curtly. "The ladies are not the only ones who need to be informed of this decision."

Tom scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Now that you've mentioned it... Are you sure you want to handle Becky and Stacy on your own?"

The man in the trench coat chuckled. "Have I not been doing that for the past five years, Director?"

"Good point. Alright then, off you go. Don't forget to tell the girls!"

"Yes, sir." He replied before swiping his ID card over the scanner, prompting the sliding metal door to open automatically. The brown-skinned man exited the soundproof room, making sure the door was shut before sighing deeply. Thank God that went well. He was rather worried the middle-aged man wouldn't like the idea.

"_Buenos días_, Antonio." Whipping his head to the side, the brown-haired man saw a familiar comrade walking towards him. "No morning drill?"

"I told Becky and Stacy to go ahead without me." He explained, dusting the lapel of his dark coffee coat. "Shouldn't you be doing drills as well, Kowalski?"

"Yes, I should," the genius lazily scratched his neck. "But I don't want to run ten laps."

"Skipper will kill you."

"He won't. I'm too valuable to be killed. I didn't say he wouldn't flay me alive though."

"Like he did Julien?" Antonio grinned, savoring the man's insulted look before switching to an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"It was." Kowalski snorted. "Don't compare me to that... brainless degenerate." He procured two sweets from the pocket of his stained lab coat, offering them to his friend. "Mint?"

"No thank you." Antonio politely declined. "Say, if you have nothing to do now, would you like to spar with me? My capoeira is a little rusty."

A lazy 'hmm' was all he got as an answer.

The brunet gave the lanky man a smile. "0900 hours sounds good to you? There's something I need to take care of."

"Becky and Stacy, I presume."

"You're a sharp man, you know that?"

Kowalski unwrapped both candies and popped them into his mouth. "I'll be waiting at training room Foxtrot." He said in between his chewing, strolling down the corridor in a relaxed pace. Antonio shook his head in wonder, watching his friend strut away. The Polish man never ceased to amaze him, be it with Sherlock Holmes-esque deductive skills or mad scientist tendencies.

_'And he's just one of CPZ's many pet psychos,' _he mused, setting off towards his team's quarters. _'Okay, time to break the news to the girls.'_

_..._

"I absolutely refuse."

Mason leaned forward. "Are you certain, Miss Doyle?"

"I think I'm speaking for all three of us as I say this." Marlene replied. "Do you seriously expect us to join you after what you did to us? And for all we know you might just kill us anyway."

"If we look at it from a technical aspect, what happened to you was a result of you meddling with our business. It was entirely your fault and no-one else's."

"You can't blame me if that man —Burt, right?— looked suspicious. Besides, it was his fault for talking about explosives in a serious manner at a cafe, over a phone call at that."

The dark-haired man quirked an eyebrow. "Did you overhear him or were you eavesdropping?"

"We overheard him. He was sitting right behind us. I remember what he ordered—"

"Peanut butter muffins," Mason said knowingly, smirking at the girl's surprised expression. "He will be punished accordingly for his carelessness. Our issue right now is with you and your companions—"

"_Friends._"

"I fail to see the difference. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the three of you now pose as a liable threat to the existence of our corporation. Should you refuse our offer, you will be dealt with accordingly."

"In other words?"

"Exterminated, the way all vermin should be."

The brunette narrowed her amber eyes, anger bubbling up within her chest. "You wouldn't."

"Or we could just hand you over to our resident mad scientist."

Marlene stood up abruptly and slammed her hands on the neon green desk that separated her and the bored-looking man. Bada and Bing, who had been quietly standing near the door, instantly raised their shotguns, ready to shoot on order. The brown-haired girl noticed their movement and nervously sat down, drawing in deep breaths in an effort to calm herself down. The man sitting across the restless girl smiled, gently pushing a small cup towards her. "Tea?"

The brunette eyed the cup suspiciously. The quaint thing was of high artistic value; smooth, pearly porcelain white rimmed with a glittering lionet gold double-band, pink opal roses and amethyst asters adorning the equator, surrounded by a myriad of wispy ivy. The little plate the cup was resting on was similar in design, but with tiny pearly circles in the place of the ivy. An ornate silver spoon was also provided along with a packet of sugar. She silently wondered what such dainty pieces of furniture were doing in a place like this before concluding that they were probably stolen goods.

Mason had an identical cup in his hands. The fair-skinned man crossed his legs, the smooth material of his dark coffee trousers stretching against his legs. "We have prepared it to suit your personal preferences. Youlike sweetened Darjeeling, don't you?"

She stared at the pale man. "How'd you—"

"If you are concerned about the contents of the tea, rest assured that we did not insert any form of poison in it. The cup, perhaps, but not the tea. It would be too easy to trace back to us should your corpse ever be discovered by the public. Not that we'd take any chances of that." He chuckled when the girl gave him a horrified look. "I was jesting, miss."

The half-Asian rolled her eyes. "Oh, sure." She spat, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "We're protected by the law of human rights. You can't subject us to involuntary service—"

"I beg to differ. While you are protected by the law, that does not stop us from being fully capable of subjecting you to... 'involuntary service', as you call it."

"Yes, it does." The girl insisted. "If you do that to us, the government will put you under..." She stopped in her tracks, an unsettling realization dawning upon her. "Under... arrest."

Mason's smile darkened. "Can they?" Marlene fell back to her seat in resignation as the man spoke out the horrible truth of the situation in complete ignorance of her distress. "There's a reason we're still running around, very much alive, and there is very little you could do about it, _woman_."

"I don't want to do this!" The brunette cried angrily. "I want my normal life back! I want to go back to my family! I don't want this!"

The man's gaze darkened. "Neither do we. Your presence is not valuable in our ranks, and we wouldn't have done this if it weren't for our director's orders. Truthfully, a lot of us were disappointed you weren't offed on the spot." He paused for a moment, pushing up his bronze monocle. "If you do favor such a fate, however, we could easily arrange an execution for you. Right after this little talk of ours, perhaps?"

"I demand a choice in this matter! You can't—"

"I'm afraid this isn't a _choice_." The man stood up, his cup cleared of the last drop of tea. He walked around the desk, pausing next to the trembling woman. In a brief moment of scripted sympathy, he placed his left hand on Marlene's shoulder, patting it lightly. "You may have little trust in me, but know this: every one of us here never regretted our decision to stay. You, too, will see why. It is only a matter of time."

The brunet shot Bada and Bing a look. The two men immediately understood the gesture and unlocked the door, allowing their team leader to exit the lavishly decorated room. He made a mental note to ask Tom who was in charge of interior design as he left. What kind of a person decorates an interrogation roomwith bright neon beanbags, stuffed animals —there were eight; each represents one CPZ team— and a hand-painted lolcat wallpaper?

"You're free to take your tea. Oh, and take care not to touch the spoon. Have a good day, Miss Doyle."

The door closed behind the stoic man, sparing him from the sound of the girl's furious yells.

...

**A/N: **Dialogue-heavy chapters sure are wonderful. From this point on, there will be an infuriating amount of beating around the bush, insane troll logic, POV confusion, plot existence failure, red herring, brick joke, etc. If you're an impatient reader who wants to see the good stuff as soon as possible, I suggest you hit the back button. I probably said this before, but I'll say it again: this story is for those who are willing to wait for the harvest. Don't say I didn't warn you.

_A Friend_: You're welcome. And yes, you spelled that right. Thank you for your support.

_LoverOfThings_: I am grateful for your positive remarks, however, I feel that 'perfect' may be a bit too strong a word. I am afraid of admitting this, but since you have such high hopes for my story, I will now be very careful in what I write. I still have much to learn. Thank you.

_Chocochino_: I'm sorry for misspelling your name. As an apology, I'll send four chapters at once to increase your workload. Yes, please do fix your English grammar. You cannot hack my account. Transparent headsets? What an intriguing concept. Thank you for your wonderful suggestion.

_mary_: Thank you. I plan on including as many characters as possible from the TV series, down to the most obscure of them. Wouldn't want anyone to feel left out— wait, what did you say? Government society? What do you mean, government society?

_Skipper Quatermain_: Oh, you exaggerate so. Like I said, 'perfect' is mighty strong an opinion. That being said, thank you for your kind words. I will try my best not to disappoint you and all my other readers. Chocochino will be helping me, of course, so half the credit really goes to her.

...

_Reviews feed Mort.  
These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.  
It would be wise of you to follow their noble action._


	4. Resolve

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter Three  
**Resolve

**C.P.Z., Inc. Headquarters, New York – 1211 hours**

Marlene felt like she just wanted to shrink and disappear into a hole. It would be better than to endure the cold stares she and her companions were getting from everyone in the room. She felt her twin place a comforting arm around her while their friend sent a growl at anyone who stared for too long. The brunette remembered a vaguely similar feeling in elementary school, where she used to be bullied by mischievous boys. Arlene would always stand between her and her assailants, telling them off or beating sense into them. Back then, she felt safe.

Why couldn't she feel the same way now?

"Are you okay, Marlene?" Her leucistic sibling asked, concerned. The fair-skinned girl took a good look of her abnormal twin. It didn't make sense. Arlene was supposed to be weaker of them, with her partial albinism, but she always ended up depending on the younger to lift her up when she was down in the dumps. "Hello? Earth to my favorite twin sister!"

_'It's not fair.'_

"I'm the only twin sister you've got, silly." Marlene laughed, feeling a bit better from the joke. "I'm alright, don't worry. It's just..." She sighed. "This doesn't feel _real_."

Arlene twirled her unnaturally pale hair around her finger. "It's almost like we're in a movie or something. You think?"

Marlene started fidgeting with the hem of her trench coat. A pink-haired man had came up to her and gave her three of them - milk white, dark coffee, and the earthy beet she currently wore. The only thing he had said was to wear them. He didn't really explain why. "Movie is a bit far-fetched. Book, maybe."

"Yea, sure." Arlene dropped her tray carelessly on the table before plopping down on the bench the same way. The chrome-eyed girl started to play with her lunch, rolling a shimeji mushroom across the plate with her wooden chopsticks. It didn't feel right, eating nonchalantly when their whole lives just got screwed up to eleven. "The guy who wanted talked to you looked real nice though. How is he?"

Marlene contemplated the question as she sat down next to her twin. As she dug into her yam cake (she was hungrier than she thought), the memory of her session with Mason replayed in her mind. She shuddered at the dread that coursed through her. _'They're horrible. All of them.' _"He's fine. But I don't trust him."

Marilyn grunted in approval - of which opinion they didn't know, but it hardly mattered. Arlene frowned at her twin's words. The Marlene she knew wasn't this paranoid. "Now I know you're not okay. What happened, Leena?" Her frown deepened when she received no reply. And she had used her favorite nickname too. "What the hell happened when you talked with him?" She asked, pointing at Mason, who was sitting with his team at a corner of the room.

The three of them had been confined to a strangely colorful room until the dark-haired man came with two other, larger men and took her and Marilyn to another room, saying he had to talk with her older twin sister in private. The leucistic girl couldn't help but ponder what happened while they were gone.

Of course, her twin's guess hit the spot. Not that she'd let her know that. "It's nothing," the brunette sighed. "I guess I'm just... tired."

The albino's frown didn't cease. "Tired. Right." Her twin was hiding something, and she didn't like it one bit. "Look, Leena—"

"Well, if it ain't the _prisoners_."

The three girls momentarily stopped eating and looked up. A woman with peroxide blonde hair stood beside their table with her arms crossed under her bust, flanked by two identical ladies who were just slightly taller than her. Arlene vaguely recalled her as the one who had caught them snooping in.

"Gettin' used to this, darlin'?"

_'Well whaddya know? Maybe she ain't so mean after all,' _Arlene flashed the dark-skinned lady a friendly smile. "We're good, tha—"

"Cuz y'all are like, the rats in the food chain," The woman interrupted, not bothering with the albino girl's reply. "Fixin' to stay that way, too. Serves y'all rodents right, I done say."

The girl was stunned, not expecting the sudden hostility. Her twin, however, was prepared and had stood face-to-face with the woman — as far as she could reach anyway; how high are those heels exactly? "Knock it off, will you? We don't want any trouble, and we'll appreciate it if you don't provoke our anger."

"Who'se provokin'?" The tanned woman denied, pushing a curly lock of pale hair behind her ear. "Y'all don't belong here; me an' mah gals are just fixin' ta make sure ya done know—"

"Knock it off, Darla. You heard the lady."

All six females turned to look at the source of the voice. A man with wavy brown hair walked towards them, his hands clenched tightly in the pockets of his dark coffee leather trench coat. The Latina rolled her eyes when she saw who it was. "Ain't your problem, Antonio."

"It becomes my problem when you're bullying _my _teammates," the man glared. "Don't even say you didn't know about the arrangement. I made sure Becky and Stacy told everyone."

Nobody moved, each waiting for someone else to react. After what seemed to be an eternity of quiet tension, the busty leader of the Baboon Squad decided to make the first move.

Lowering her voice so that only the two of them could hear her, the Latina leaned closer to the brown-skinned man, stopping next to his ear. "Try not to get too attached, yea?" A wide grin threatened to split her face in two. "Vermin is still vermin, no matter what. I'm sure you know that." She gestured at her companions to follow her, five-inch heels clacking loudly as the three women strutted away.

Antonio shook his head disapprovingly before directing his attention towards Marlene. "I'd like to apologize in her place, senorita. She can come off as unfriendly to new recruits."

The brunette scowled. It didn't matter that he had just defended her. _'Don't let them fool you. It's all just fake sympathy.' _"Oh, so we're _new recruits _now? Not _prisoners_?"

The man rubbed the back of his neck. "Actually, yes. Didn't anybody tell you that?" He took one cautious step back when all three girls glared. "I'm terribly sorry; that was rude of me."

"You better be." Arlene blurted, followed by a growl from Marilyn. The pale girl went back to playing with her food while the other continued scarfing down the chow mien on her plate.

"Alright then, uh... I suppose I'll leave you alone now. Enjoy your meal." The lack of response prompted a sad frown from the Spaniard. He clenched and unclenched his hands nervously in his pockets, trying to find something good to say. "I understand that you're unhappy with the arrangement, but I just want you to know that as your new team leader, I have a duty to take care of all of you. So if there's anything I could do, please don't hesitate to tell me."

Knowing the three females wouldn't respond to his attempt at peace, Antonio tried to shift his thoughts to something else. _'I hope he wouldn't mind another spar...'_

_..._

"So," Kowalski dropped just in time to dodge a spinning kick aimed at his head. "Are you really here to practice, or are you trying to get things off your mind?"

The brunet's attempt at laughter is alarmingly similar to a sickly wheeze. "You are a man with impressive intellect, you know that?"

"Answer the question." The curly-haired man shot, not giving his partner a chance to distract him. The scientist executed a low swipe at the Spaniard's leg, but the attempt to throw him off balance was thwarted when the brunet flipped into the air, successfully avoiding the attack.

"Both," he said truthfully, landing on both feet just behind his sparring partner. "Sometimes I feel like the ladies are putting stress on me, not the other way around." He raised a leg high up and spun halfway around before slamming it down on the scientist. "Our morning session ended in a draw, didn't it?"

"And you don't like draws." The genius kicked at the ground, propelling himself backwards by a few feet. "There's no point in getting stressed over the prisoners, you know."

"They're not prisoners. Not anymore."

"Fresh blood, whatever. My point is you need to stop getting too emotional over this. Get a grip on it. You're the team leader, you need a clear head to work things out."

"Easy for you to say; you're not the leader."

Kowalski frowned. "Contrary to common belief, I have considerable experience in leading. Why do you think I like calling shotgun?" He threw a punch at the brown-skinned man's solar plexus, expecting a dodge or counter. To his surprise, the Spaniard simply caught his fist, locking it in his own larger one. The dark immigrant ceased his actions that instant. "What is it?"

"Can we... stop for a while?"

"What's wrong? Is _it_ acting up again?"

Antonio sighed, gently moving to a cross-legged position on the floor. He tapped the wooden parquet, as if asking the scientist to join him. Kowalski was reluctant, but then accepted the invitation anyway. The two sat in silence for a few minutes; not speaking, not moving, nothing. The white light of the training room shone upon them, casting long shadows on the brown floor.

To anybody else, the apparent atmosphere was stiff and uncomfortable.

To the two men, it was welcome and calming.

"I feel sorry for them. I really do."

Kowalski absently dragged a finger across the smooth surface of the parquet. "They're not the first people recruited this way, you know."

The brunet nodded. "If their lives are going to change from now on, I don't want this to be a scar that will haunt them forever." He lowered his head, amber eyes cast on the wood floor. "I want their new lives here to be an enjoyable experience, something they're willing to do."

The genius stared at him. "Antonio—"

"It's not just about their feelings, Kowalski, but also the team's overall effectivity. We won't be able to work right if half the team are doing it purely because it's an order." The man wrung his gloved fingers together, lips stretching into a thin frown. "People perform better if they like what they're doing; there's a scientific research proving that, right?"

"An—"

"What if I do it wrong? What if I end up making things worse for them? It's lovely to have them in my team, and I don't regret taking up your option, but I'm worried it'll go horribly wrong in the long run. And once it does what will I do? I can't undo mistakes, no-one's close to inventing a time machine - you said so yourself! I already offended them, who's to say it won't happen again at a worse caliber? What will I—"

"Antonio!" The scientist reached out, grabbing his friend's shoulders. "Antonio, listen to me. To everyone who came here, voluntarily or not, there is no such thing as 'over the hills and a great way off'." His grip tightened, crinkling the crisp material of the brunet's black shirt. "We are the children of Hamelin now, and there is absolutely _nothing_ we can do about it. Have you forgotten?" His hands returned to his side, fists still clenched. "There is no going back. Not for them, not for us... not even for Tom and Eric."

"But Alex—"

"There's only one way to be freed of the Piper's melody and he took it along with Marty, Gloria and Melman. They wanted freedom, they paid the price. Stop trying to defy gravity! You'll end up hurting yourself." The Polish man stopped to exhale sharply. "Believe me, I know."

The brunet's chuckles were empty and devoid of any glee. "Of course you'd know."

The silence that followed was deafening and suffocating - so different from the calming one they've just had but a few moments ago. It was entirely uncomfortable, and neither of them liked it. Kowalski played with the buttons on his pristine white shirt for lack of better thing to do while Antonio sat frozen like a marble statue.

"...you know, I think your problem isn't with the prisoners—"

"_New recruits_."

"What you said. Your inherent problem is going on forever in a cycle of 'what if's."

Shallow laughter. "I guess you're right."

"Of course." A beat. "I'm going on a mission."

"Solo?"

"With the team."

"Ah. When are you due to leave?"

"The time of departure is 0900 hours tomorrow morning. We're going to Oslo, but Skipper said we'll make a pit stop at London. The rest of the mission is strictly need-to-know."

The Spaniard smiled tiredly. "Something tells me London was also need-to-know."

Kowalski returned the smile as he stood up and stretched. "Let's get out of here. I heard Bada and Bing are going to use this place to practice. You don't want to get caught between them." He extended his hand to his friend, who took it gratefully, letting the Polish man pull him up. The two men grabbed the clothing articles that they had taken off before sparring and made their way out of the room.

...

"Stopwatch."

"Check!"

"Tracking bug."

"Umm... Check!"

"Clip-on mini webcam."

"I'm sure it's in there somewhere..."

"Swimsuit."

Private's jaw fell. "Pardon?"

Skipper ignored the boy, tossing a monochrome wetsuit onto his orange trunk. "Check. Off you go, Private; your luggage is complete. Rico! It's your turn for baggage checking."

The scarred man stumbled in front of the boy, lugging a large red trunk with him. He popped it open, showing a ridiculously large amount of weapons and food ingredients. The team leader looked them over, checking things off the list in his hand quickly, throwing in another swimsuit before shooing the weapons expert away. The black-haired man looked around the room for his lieutenant. "Kowalski!"

It took a while for the genius-in-pajamas to drag his trunk in front of Skipper. The scientist gave the aforementioned man a glare. "What in the name of Newton's apple did you do to my trunk that made it so unbearably _heavy_?"

"That's for me to know and you to never find out," the commander said smugly. "Consider this punishment for not attending morning drill. _Again. _Even after I specifically told you to."

Kowalski was silent, knowing he had it coming. The Polish man unlocked the trunk lid to show Skipper his portion of the team's total luggage. "Everything you told me to prepare is in there. Computerized contact lenses, compact artificial gill extensions, et cetera, and thirteen packs of Mentos. Einstein only knows why you want that when you don't even like sweets."

"Again, for me to know and you to never find out," the team leader checked off the items on his list, pausing as he contemplated what he just said. "On second thought, you'll probably find out later. But I still won't tell you." He continued checking stuff off the paper until he was done, not forgetting to throw in yet another swimsuit to his subordinate's trunk. "Okay, that should be everything we're going to need later. Since we'll be leaving first thing in the morning, I want all of you to take a good rest. That means no Lunacorn, no weapons testing, no lab work." Groans filled the room, but it didn't deter the man in the black tee. "_Comprende_?"

"Aye aye, sir." Private saluted half-reluctantly. He wanted to watch the Lunacorn show, but he didn't want his superior to yell at him.

Rico pouted, sulking as he trudged to his bunk. His plan on spending the night at the shooting range was botched. On the bright side, Skipper said nothing about bringing Miss Perky along. The muscular man giggled, stroking his beloved doll's soft blonde hair as he dozed off.

"But we're leaving for a whole week," Kowalski whined. "Can I at least see Jiggles?"

Skipper glared. "No means no, soldier! This is also part of the punishment." His gaze softened when the scientist lowered his head dejectedly. "Oh, fine. But five minutes tops!"

The team leader watched with a fond smile as the genius happily rushed to say goodbye to his pet power cell. He considered taking a cup of coffee, but reminded himself that the mission will require his full attention and it won't do if he ends up distracted by sleep-deprivation. The slightly tanned man climbed onto his bed, noting how Private was snugly curled up under the blanket in his cream sleepshirt, already lost in dreamland.

_'Well that was fast,' _he remarked absently as he shut his eyes, hoping Sandman would come to him as quick as he did the young boy.

...

**A/N: **Sorry for the update delay. I came across a really awesome character question sheet and I just _had_ to fill it in first. It's totally my fault, I know. I see some people have demanded more of dear Private. Don't worry, he will get a day (or more) in the limelight. Just not yet. I did tell you to be patient, didn't I?

_Me_: I feel compelled to ask: what is it that you see in, as you say, my version of Private? I do not think I've provided much of his character in the previous chapters.

_A Friend_: You gave up on the PoM fandom? My goodness. I assume you have a good reason to do so; otherwise I just don't see the problem. Thank you.

_mary_: No, it's alright. I'm aware that CPZ looks like a government society, but it's not. And you had better not say that in front of the members; they _really_ dislike the notion. By mess hall, did you mean Skipper's talk with Kowalski?

_Chocochino_: Currently editing and re-editing all action-oriented chapters - the bite just ain't enough. We'll talk at school.

_LoverOfThings_: Thank you for holding my story in such high regard. If you can handle this level of OOC, I hope you'll have no problems with the upcoming OOCs in future chapters. Talks about another character between characters? Sure. I appreciate you promoting this story. Thank you for your support. Fingers crossed indeed.

_Skippe rQuatermain_: So far so good? Glad I haven't disappointed you... yet. Crack is quite a suitable word to describe it, but it's not really a 'crack', more of a... yea, it's sort of complicated between those two. In-fighting within the team? Sounds amusing. Thanks for the suggestion.

...

_Reviews feed Mort.  
These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.  
It would be wise of you to follow their noble action._


	5. Great Britain I

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter Four  
**Great Britain I

**C.P.Z., Inc. Headquarters, New York – 0855 hours**

Skipper scanned the hangar, brows furrowed. "Where the deuce is Rico?" The aggravated man turned to look at his second-in-command. "Kowalski, analysis!"

"It would appear he is currently at the weapons storage," the man in the lab coat reported, tapping the blinking neon green dot on his PDA. "I have yet to synchronize this device to our facility's security cameras, but if I have to hazard a guess, I would say he is adding a flamethrower to his arsenal."

"Flamethrower? Why flamethrower?"

"I believe I gave you a file regarding his mental ailments. Please re-read it later."

The tuxedo-clad man groaned. "Didn't he know the meaning of _enough is enough_? He's already added an Uzi and another AK49 to the baggage this morning; I told him not to take anything else. The helicopter will overload!"

"No, it won't. According to my calculation—"

"Did I ask for a math?"

"—the weight total will arrive at exactly 0.01 kg before the vehicle overloads." Kowalski continued, completely ignoring his leader. He pushed his round glasses upwards. "Suppose nothing makes impact with the helicopter while it's hovering in mid-air, like bird excrement, or rain, we should be perfectly fine."

Skipper rolled his eyes. "And the chances?"

"0.7% chance of bird excrement failure, 22.3% chance of rain and meatballs and 77% chance of everything else."

"I don't think I like those odds."

"Ahm hee-a'!" All eyes turned to look at the big man pushing his monster of a luggage into the room. Rico grinned apologetically at his leader, scratching the back of his head. "Sowwy?"

The commander tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Throw it on board," he turned to look at the rest of his team. "You two, get in. We've got less than five minutes before departure."

"Yes sir."

The team's youngest member hurried to the waiting helicopter while the scientist took his time to admire the vehicle's glossy black finish, stroking it lovingly until he was barked at to 'quit making kissy faces at the copter.' The weapons expert followed closely behind, lifting his red trunk into the cabin. Finally, the leader entered last behind his men.

"Kowalski, sit and don't do anything weird with the vehicle. Rico, secure the cargo. Make sure nothing can fall out. Private, go in front and see who's piloting. If none of us are at the controls, I want to make sure it's someone who won't nosedive into a volcano."

Private did as he was told and went to inspect the cockpit to see who was appointed as their pilot. He was told that it wouldn't be Pinky, who was usually in charge of driving everything that isn't cars, so he was curious. The boy cried in surprise when he saw who it was.

"Phil! You're piloting?"

His question was met with a wide grin and a flurry of gestures he didn't understand. The young boy couldn't help but notice the stitched scar that ran across Phil's neck. The redhead had to be decommissioned for a while since his last mission went wrong. The dark-haired child concluded that the scar was the product of said mission and offered a sympathetic smile.

"Alright, I'm going back to my team. It's good to see you up and on duty again."

Private made his way back to the cabin. On his way he saw a man in a canvas jacket frantically climbing onto the vehicle, then ran past Private to the cockpit; the only sign that he had noticed the young boy at all was a fast 'hi Private'. Said boy shook his head as he watched the man with the watermelon pink hair go. Laughing lightly, he walked into the cabin and came face-to-face with his one and only team leader.

"So, who's the lucky pilot?"

"Phil," the child held his gloved hand in front of his mouth, trying to suppress a giggle when he saw Skipper's expression suddenly drop from stern to horrified. "Though Pinky is coming too. Perhaps they're using this trip as a motoric drill to get Phil back on his feet."

Kowalski whistled. "Well, that certainly adds to the odds of bird excrement failure."

"Everybody buckle up!"

...

**Barclays London Heliport, London – 1747 hours**

Skipper and Kowalski looked away as Private retched behind a bush, Rico patting his back. The ride had been absolutely awful. There was no excrement failure, thankfully, and the skies were mostly clear. It was Phil's hellish driving that churned the acids in their stomach to the consistency of oil. They _did _tell him to be quick, but they didn't mean raising the speed of the helicopter to that of a goddamn_ plane_. How it was even possible, they didn't want to know. Kowalski said something about Pinky making unauthorized modifications to the engine, but went silent when Skipper slapped him and told him to 'shut that jibber-jabbering pie trap'.

The tuxedo-clad man groaned as he massaged his throbbing temples. "Kowalski, remind me to send a complaint to Mason later."

The scientist had a poker face on, but behind it he yearned to join the boy in regurgitating their breakfast. It didn't help that the sounds their youngest team member was making were quite effective in inducing disgust.

After a couple more rounds of vomiting, Private stumbled out to the street where they were waiting. "I'll be fine," he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, cringing a bit at the faint trace of bile on his black gloves. "I think."

"Well, now that Private's problem is resolved... Kowalski, transport options."

The pale man whipped out his PDA. "According to the map, Skipper, there's a bus stop nearby at Lombard Road. However, I am unsure of the bus' route and schedule, therefore I suggest we take a cab instead."

"Taxi it is. Come on, men."

...

Private looked out of the window, his sapphire eyes darting side to side as they tried to follow the trees rapidly zooming past them. The dark- haired boy propped his right elbow atop the sill, resting his chin on his palm.

England. His birthplace.

Despite this being his homeland, he couldn't quite recall the details of his childhood life. The only consistent part of his memories were his uncle, Nigel, who served as his guardian for a fair length of time. They boy could hardly picture his beloved uncle's face anymore. Every time he tried, only a fuzzy image came up in his mind. Perhaps he really needed to get back in touch with the old man.

Long live America.

"Say, Sheldon," the boy started, turning to look at the man sitting next to him. "Can I pay a visit to Uncle after the wedding?"

The man addressed kept his gaze forward. "I'm sorry, Potter." He paused when the taxi hit a bump on the road. "We're on a schedule."

"Why are we here in the first place? Don't they have their own wedding planners?"

Skipper raised an eyebrow. "I've been wondering about that," he said, his tone flat. Sky blue orbs shifted towards the lanky man lazily leaning against the opposite window. "What do you make of it, King?"

"I couldn't care less." A smirk tugged at the end of the genius' lips. "And I believe dear Reagan agrees."

The fourth passenger eagerly nodded in his place, though he didn't offer any reply.

In the front row, the cabbie discreetly smiled at the suspiciously casual conversation. This team was obviously a more experienced one. Pushing the lettered buttons on his phone, it didn't take more than half a minute for him to send a short message to his partner.

_Hang in there, Barry. Won't take long._

_..._

**Lister Hall, London – 1830 hours**

"Got it from this guy," Skipper huffed, dropping his bag on the hard floor. "Michael-something, I don't remember."

"He is insignificant to the mission." Kowalski commented, wandering further into the flat. A moment later, the sounds of a machine being tampered with could be heard.

Behind the two superior officers, Rico stumbled into the living room, carrying not one but _four_ trunks with him. It was the punishment Skipper gave him for almost making them run late. The man with the spiky hair didn't dare to complain; he knew he deserved it. The leader is actually being generous, making him a porter instead of telling him to run laps around London. Sure, he was _the _Rico, but London? He'd get lost in four seconds flat. The weapons expert hurriedly set to unloading their daily necessities out of their trunks onto the grey granite floor.

Private was the last to come in, carrying a bag of his own. Closing the oak door behind him, he let his bright blue eyes wander, taking in the layout of the flat they had rented. It was a fairly decent place; not luxurious, but quite roomy by its own right. "Should I check the beds?"

Skipper stared at the child, propping his elbows on the arms of the sofa he sat on. The military man tilted his head, regarding the young boy's question with mild interest. He can't remember the last time someone asked him if they could check the bed... Probably because nobody ever did. Did Private ask that on a whim then? Can't be. Private never asked things on a whim. Then why did he? Because something was hidden in the beds? Maybe the Space Squids anticipated their arrival and had planted bombs in the bed? In that case, cannon fodder is in order.

Hey, that rhymed.

"Alright. Listen, Private! Commence Operation: Bedroom Maintenance. Your mission objective is to dust the mattresses, apply the sheets and clear the room of any sort of filth in exactly 15 minutes. You can find the sheets in Kowalski's trunk. The mission starts... now!"

The man watched as the sixteen-year-old male scrambled away to execute his orders. A fond smile bloomed upon his face. One of the pros to having a team was that you didn't have to do everything on your own all the time.

A moment later his gaze was averted to the newspaper on the coffee table. They didn't subscribe to the Daily Mail so someone must've left it behind; probably the previous person(s) who rented the flat. Skipper picked the paper up, inspecting the date.

_'Huh. This is from two days ago.'_

It was outdated, but not so terribly outdated that it couldn't be trusted. He decided it wouldn't hurt to read, just to get to know whatever was going on in the foreign country.

Most of the news were rather mundane, or they just weren't interesting to the tuxedo-clad man. It was when he got to the third page that something caught his eyes. But before he could inspect it, a sudden loud bang was heard. Years of training have created muscle memory that prompted the man to instantly jump on his feet. Was he right after all? Was there a bomb in the bed? Were the Space Squids really behind this? What happened to the cannon fodder?

The cannon fodder.

_'Private!'_

He had just grabbed his gun when he realized that the bang was not followed by other sounds that indicate chaos, which meant they were not under attack. Skipper scoffed, rubbing the skin between his eyes exasperatedly as he sat back down. "Rico! No weapons testing indoors!"

The accused man shrugged. "Wa'nt me!"

"Kowalski! No experiments in civil area!"

"I am checking the kitchen inventory," came an irritated reply. "If you don't like that, you could at least tell me in a _civilized_ manner."

Skipper frowned. If neither the weapons expert nor the head of strategy caused the explosion, that only left one other member of their team. Was it really a bomb? _'This is confusing.' _The man shook his head a few times. He could feel a paranoia episode coming - he had to stop.

"Private, report!"

"I'm alright," responded a slightly high-pitched voice. "I don't know what happened, but I think the wardrobe exploded on me."

"Was it a bomb?"

"I don't think so. I don't smell anything burning and there were no ashes. There are lots of cotton though. And a strange smell."

Skipper promptly rose up to his feet, walking to the corridor that lead to the bedroom. He could spot the team strategist following straight from the corner of his eye, but didn't see Rico doing the same; he had gone back to unloading things out of their luggage. The two superior officers made their way to the bedroom, meeting their fourth member in the doorway.

Private looked part distraught, part surprised, but all the way confused. Hair was strewn about his round face, the hems of his crisp white shirt singed."Skipper," he exhaled, rushing to meet his leader. "I'm so sorry! I have no idea what I did. I was going to get the mattresses from the wardrobe but—"

"We'll find out what it was. Now stand down." Skipper interrupted, going past the boy into the room. "Kowalski, analysis."

The scientist slipped past his superior and started inspecting the furniture, noting in amusement that one of the doors was hanging from the top hinge. He poked at the limp piece of wood, frowning when he found lumps of dark, earthy material stuck on the tip of his fingers. Then, as if on impulse, he reached into the rectangular cavity and tore at the mattresses leaning against the walls of the furniture. Ignoring the questioning stares of his colleagues, he gathered several clumps of loose cotton, holding it under his nostrils and taking a few whiffs of the material. A thin smile gradually appeared on the genius' face.

Impatiently tapping his foot, the leader crossed his arms. "Well?"

"N2F4."

"In English."

"Tetrafluorohydrazine. It detonates on contact with air. The mattresses were hollowed out and the compound was placed in them so it would explode when someone opens the wardrobe." Running his fingers down the edge of the door, the Polish man pointed at the lumpy substance that lingered atop the splintered oak. "Observe: every gap was blocked with clay, camouflaged to look like wood. This preserves an air-locked state until the wardrobe was opened."

"So that's why it was so hard to open," Private quipped. "I thought it was nothing special."

"Only trained eyes would notice—"

"Show off jar," Skipper reprimanded the lanky man. "Private, it's still your duty to clean this room. Kowalski come with me; I need to show you something. Rico, can you hear me?"

"Yep!"

"Please make dinner. I'm hungry."

As the two men made their way back to the living room, the team leader saw Rico disappearing into the kitchen from the corner of his eyes, but his mind was focused on the newspaper he had been reading. It was as suspicious as a leopard seal parading around in a penguin's plumage. Skipper picked up the Daily Mail and flapped it open to the third page, showing it to his comrade.

"See that woman at the bottom right— I said look at the woman, not that state-of-the-art gadget thing!"

Kowalski narrowed his eyes when he saw the commercial. It was cut out at several places. If they were to inspect the page further, the text next to the commercial had holes as well. "Who is the previous renter of this flat?"

"Does it matter?"

"Assuming they were the ones who did this, we can interrogate them and ask them about the words or the whole message."

"What makes you think they'll tell?" The slightly tanned man scratched his chin. "Besides, I have no idea who the last renter is."

"We can also ask Michael-something, but it may arouse suspicion. Saying that an explosion had occurred on his property might prompt him to inform local authorities. I assume we don't look forward to intervention."

"No, we don't," the ex-soldier affirmed, shaking his head for emphasis. "Other options?"

"We investigate this paper. Judging from how it was cut, the page meant is probably the fourth, not the third." The bespectacled man flapped the newspaper open to the next page. "The cut out parts appear to be a selective collection of words from an article about gang crime."

"Note the title and do an online search. If we're lucky, we may be able to find an exact copy of the article. If not, try to reconstruct the missing words. Shoot me when you're done."

"Headshot or non-lethal?"

Skipper rolled his eyes, scoffing at the blatant display of defiance. Leaving Kowalski to get his laptop, he decided to check on the youngest member of the team. The leader went to the bedroom, smiling in amusement when he saw the copious amount of cotton on the floor. Private was diligently sweeping the cloud-like fluff, forming a hill at the corner of the room. The young boy's jacket and tie were discarded on a bed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Seeing the child like that made the ex-soldier recall just how young he really was and how inappropriate a life he was living.

"Oh! Hello there, Skipper." Private flashed his leader a smile. "I'm almost done cleaning up. I found extra mattresses behind the cupboard, so we won't need to look for more."

He nodded contentedly. "Outstanding initiative. Keep up the good work, Private." He patted the boy's head twice before going back to the living room. Had he spared a few moments to stay he would've seen his subordinate's flushed cheeks and satisfied grin.

...

All four members of Team Penguin gathered around the dining table where homemade food was provided by none other than the team's weapons expert. It would seem strange at first that the weapons expert was capable of such a delicate task, but it's really not. If he could tame flamethrowers, who's to say he couldn't do the same to ovens and microwaves?

"It smells good Rico," Private complimented his colleague, sniffing the bowl in the center of the table. "This is sure to taste great!"

The muscular man bashfully looked away. That action alone conveyed unsaid words of thanks.

"You deserve the compliment, soldier." Skipper added. He looked to his left and frowned; the team strategist was still on his laptop, working on the reconstruction. How long does it take to find one little article anyway? "What's taking it so long, Kowalski?"

The scientist's head snapped up, his lapis lazuli eyes meeting the younger man's sky blue as he instantly clicked the minimize button, despite having no need of it since he was sitting across his team leader. Grumbling inwardly about muscle memory, he restored the creepypasta site he had minimized on reflex. "Almost ready. I need to cross-reference the sources."

"Okay," Skipper replied, completely unaware of his second-in-command's impromptu lie. "Make it quick. Get it done before bedtime."

Kowalski shrugged, setting his laptop aside. He was getting hungry and the smell of food was very inviting. "Yes sir."

"Can we eat now?"

"Sure, Private. Help yourself."

The young boy took his time to pray while the rest of the team took turns scooping the piping hot borscht out of the bowl. The combination of Russian vegetable stew, Mediterranean grilled meats and oriental spring rolls made it a meal both hearty and healthy. Only Rico could make such delicacies from ingredients that had went through an utterly horrible flight.

Throughout the meal, Skipper's thoughts were preoccupied with the paper and the explosion. The paper he could understand, but what about the explosion? It could be a symbol of hostility, a subtle suggestion to bring along explosives, a sign that things might get dangerous, anything. But how do they tell? He eyed the sterling grey laptop on Kowalski's side as he shoved a piece of grilled chicken into his mouth. Somehow, he felt as if they just missed an important part of the message.

The meal was over in less than half an hour. Private had gone to the kitchen to help Rico do the dishes. This prompted Skipper to move next to Kowalski, thus invading his personal bubble, much to said scientist's annoyance. "How goes the intel?"

"Fine," Kowalski grumbled, reluctantly shutting the creepypasta he was reading. Seeing the commander's questioning stare, he continued. "I tried my best to reconstruct the incomplete article from the newspaper, but this is mostly a close approximation of the genuine article. I don't guarantee it to be 100% accurate. But I can assure you, my sources are trustworthy."

He brought the paper Skipper read up to the dining table, setting it flat next to his laptop. He pointed at the paper and the word document displayed on the laptop alternately. "These are the missing words from the text. If we piece them together in the order they appear in the article, the result would be: 'the battlefield is West Ham. E and E do not belong to Star Lane. Doing nothing is not an option.' The message ends at 'option'."

"Does 'E' stand for anything specific?"

"According to this article, the letter E followed by a number is an indication to the postal codes in London, also a codename for gangs in the area. For example, E12 is the postal code for Manor Park, but it also indicates the Tamil Tigers."

Skipper furrowed his brows. "How do we tell which one is the right one?"

"That's what we need to figure out."

"You're the genius, you figure it out."

Kowalski sighed in exasperation. "Can we save it for tomorrow? I need to rest."

"I still want results, soldier. That was an order."

"If you ever need me anytime between five minutes from now until tomorrow morning, you can find me in the Sandman's castle."

"Smartass." Skipper muttered under his breath as he watched the pale man disappear into the bedroom. It didn't take long before his interest was once again focused on the cryptic message they were presented with. He has yet to break it to Rico and Private; he was unsure as to how they would react to impromptu missions. Then again, they do have one week before Oslo.

"Skipper, what is that you're looking at?"

The tuxedo-clad man resisted the urge to jump. Instead, he turned to look at the source of the voice. Private and Rico were right behind him, bending over to look at the laptop. The former gave him a quizzical look, as if to ask what he was doing reading something he didn't usually read. On the other hand, Rico's attention was completely fixed on the screen; the rugged man had a dangerously interested look on his face.

"I was just... taking a look," he lied, avoiding having to look into his subordinates' eyes. "This is Kowalski's laptop. Just checking to make sure he's not planning anything that will end up threatening us all." Skipper's eyes discreetly looked around for some kind of thing that could distract them. "Anyway, it's getting a bit boring, so... game night?"

Rico raised his hands up in the air, whooping at the mention of game night. Private squealed in glee, giggling happily. "Oh boy, game night! I'll go get Kowalski, then we can play Monopoly."

"It's better if you leave him alone. He said he was tired, so he's retiring early."

The boy's face fell. "Oh." But it didn't take long before his smile returned. "Well, we could still play Monopoly with three people, right?"

"That's right." Skipper smiled at him. _'Besides, Kowalski sucks at Monopoly. He's just going to end up bitching about the rules and how stupid and unrealistic they are.' "_Come on, men. The more we idle the less time we have."

...

They ended up playing several different games. Private said Monopoly was depressing because it was quieter than usual (without Kowalski's regular bitching-about-the-rules) so they moved on to individual games. Skipper was just about to win against himself in tic-tac-toe when Rico suddenly approached him, whining about being lonely. In the end the two of them played chess while Private took over Skipper's tic-tac-toe.

Skipper looked up from the chessboard. The weapons expert of his team was pouting and had his brows furrowed to the point where they almost met in between his tourmaline eyes. He had to admit: it was cute. Yes, it was Rico, but his expression was so similar to an upset puppy Skipper couldn't help aww-ing inside. Not that he would ever admit it. The man committed the image to his mind; a beautiful memory to take the place of the dreary bits at the back of his mind is always welcome.

He averted his gaze to the yellow clock on the wall, raising an eyebrow when he saw the time. "Alright men, time to go to bed." The dismayed cry of Private soon reached his ear. He growled menacingly. "That means now. You can choose to be disobedient, but there are consequences for insubordination."

"Will you read us a bedtime story, Skipper?"

"Do I look like your mother, Private?"

"Umm... No?"

"And you just answered your own question. Off you go, boy."

Skipper looked to his side where Rico was still frozen on his seat, face unchanging. The team leader's gaze softened. "Maybe chess just isn't your kind of game... You know what? We'll play hot potato tomorrow." He patted the scarred man's shoulder, smiling inwardly when Rico flashed him a huge smile before clearing the chess set off the table and went to the bedroom to join the rest of the team.

Skipper sighed to himself. Sometimes it's hard to remember that Rico was four years younger than him. The weapons expert was the second tallest of the team and the one with the most muscle mass. He sported scars all over his well built body; some stitched and some not, some faint and some very noticeable, the most iconic being the long, thin one that stretched from the corner of his left brow, across his eye, over his cheek and lips before continuing down his neck to end in the middle of his left collarbone. None of them knew how that particular scar came to be - not even _Rico _knew; they tried asking him before. Skipper couldn't help but wonder: was the memory thatbad, his mind subconsciously blocked it out to protect himself from the pain, or did Rico voluntarily chose to forget what had caused the lifelong mark? Or was it something else altogether? Maybe he was brainwashed so he could forget what happened? If that is true, was it voluntary or involuntary?

He shook his head hard. _'Stop! You're thinking like Kowalski!' _This is why he hated tiring days. _'Speaking of Kowalski...' _He allowed himself a grin, rubbing his palms together as he imagined an image of his sleeping second-in-command._ 'I think morning drill misses him.'_

Meanwhile in the bedroom, Private was getting ready to go to bed when he heard sirens in the distance. He curiously pressed his cheek to the window in a childish impulse to try to see the police cars when he remembered the main road was perpendicular to their flat, therefore he wouldn't be able to see anything if he looked out of the front window. Shrugging, the young boy flopped to the bed on his stomach, hugged his pillow and went to join the team strategist in dreamland.

...

**Avondale Road, London – 2335 hours**

The red-eyed man grunted as he was thrown to the asphalt road. He spit out a blob of blood, trying to get a good look at his assailants from between strands of dyed silver hair. "Why'd you stop, huh? Broke a nail?"

His laughter was cut short by a high-heeledkick to his face. The man rolled to his side, groaning while he clutched his broken nose. He cursed loudly as scarlet liquid spurted out from under his fingers like water from garden sprays.

"That's whatcha get for messin' with us." The man felt himself being lifted up by the collar of his bloodied hoodie. He dared himself to look into the eyes of the woman manhandling him. They were such beautiful shades of green.

'_Too bad they belong to this... bitch.'_

"You should've known better." Multiple kicks found their way to the man's abdomen. "West Ham belongs to our colony, so move yer asses off our territory before we do it for ya, street rat!" One last kick was dealt to the man's groin before the woman and her companions left, disappearing into the shadows of the night.

_'More like sewer rats,' _he thought grimly as his mind recalled the memories buried in the back of his mind, digging them up mercilessly like a mutt would a decomposing bone. He sluggishly dragged himself upwards, trying to stand tall. _'These things happen,' _he told himself._ 'And not just to you so quit mopin' like a goddamn baby! Fucker.'_

The man wiped the remaining blood on his face, smearing the vital liquid like red paint across the pale expanse of his cheek. Let the crimson stain be a tribute to his comrades who fell in the hands of the same woman he has had the misfortune to cross paths with.

_'King ain't gonna be happy when he sees this. Whatever. Can't get any worse than this.'_

Nobody noticed the woman returning with a metal bat in her leather-wrapped hands.

"Too slow, rat. Too slow."

...

**A/N: **I took references from the net for real-life things, but there are some incorrect data that I just can't be bothered enough to retcon. The chemical part especially is a big stretch; forgive me. Also, the time setting is flexible between 2007 and now. Feel free to set your own timeline.

_Me_: Just like they would be on the show, huh? I must agree with you; out of all four penguins, he's the second hardest for me to characterize. Skipper won first place, hands down. The other two are easier, mostly because I could relate to them. Thank you for your continuous support.

_SkileneFTW_: Neither. The man you're referring to would be Mason. I reviewed your first story; hope you don't mind my brazen honesty.

_mary_: Now you know why they're going. Thank you for your continuous support.

_LoverOfThings_: Thank you. Yes, you missed it. See what Kowalski said in the paragraph above that. I see you're fond of Arlene. May I ask why?

_A Friend_: Thank you. A break, huh? In that case, welcome back to the fandom.

...

_Reviews feed Mort.  
These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.  
It would be wise of you to follow their noble action._


	6. Great Britain II

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter Five  
**Great Britain II

**Lister Hall, London - 0725 hours**

Skipper resisted the urge to ungraciously belch the coffee in his mouth back into the steel mug. Chances were if he did that the coffee would fall on him instead of into the mug. Stains on white shirt can be a bitch to clean off if you had no bleach. With admirable determination, he kept the scalding liquid inside, trying to ignore the unpleasant feeling on his tongue. Sure, he liked his coffee hot, but no sane man would ever like it _this _hot.

He shot the person in charge of making his morning coffee a glare. The only reply he got was a smugly saccharine smile.

His second-in-command was sitting on a chair, typing into his laptop. The scientist was sitting in a very proper manner, but Skipper knew better. Kowalski only sits like that when he was really spent. It made no sense. The genius had explained his reasons before, but it was full of jibber jabber he eventually quit listening.

Private let his sore body plop down on the dark grey couch, like a marionette cut lose from its strings. Kowalski wasn't the only one who got the nasty end of morning drill. The boy didn't know it, but true to Skipper's words to Rico yesterday, they played several rounds of hot potato _the exact moment they woke up._

You think you've had a terrible nightmare? You would choose to remain in the nightmare if you woke up to a lit bomb in your face.

Thankfully it was a decoy bomb; the only thing it did when it blew up was scatter tiny pieces of black rubber everywhere, much to the dismay of the boy who got the sucker job of being the designated trash collector.

Rico stretched a bit before flopping down to the empty space beside Private. The scarred man grabbed the remote control and turned the TV on. Hot potato was delicious, but right now he needed another form of entertainment. Aside from Miss Perky, of course. Rico gave the doll in his lap a loving look, stroking her blonde hair with his gloved hand. She was always there for him, never leaving him alone even when others do. That was why he adored her so much.

_"...the body was found at Birch Close at 11 PM last night. The victim's face was disfigured, and there were no possessions that could confirm his identity. The police suspected the victim was going on a stroll when he was attacked by drunken members of a local gang, hence the lack of goods on his body."_

Skipper smirked. "The typical police reasoning: flag it as drunkenness and robbery."

Kowalski cocked a brow. "What do _you_ think?"

"If their primary motive was looting, disfiguring the corpse would be unnecessary." The man took a sip of his coffee, remembering to blow before drinking. "I don't know what goes on between these gangs, but if what we read yesterday is true, this probably isn't the first case of vengeance-driven murder."

"You read _what_ yesterday?"

"Eyes and ears on the telly, Private."

All four men directed their attention to the TV. If there was anything they share in common, it was an avid interest in crime. Of course, they all had different perceptions on the subject, but the point was it's entertaining to them.

_"...over the victim's body, which appears to be made with airbrush. The large black-and-yellow cross is suspected to be a gang symbol, but this is the first time it was seen in London's streets. The police has yet to be able to identify the specific gang it belongs to."_

Private frowned. "How disrespectful of them, using a sacred figure to represent violence."

Kowalski took a gulp of fresh milk. "That isn't a cross. It's a plus sign."

"It is?"

"The lines are of equal length. If the outer dots are connected, they'll form a rhombus. If it was a cross, it will form a kite instead because the vertical is longer than the horizontal. This only makes sense if we're talking about the Catholic cross seeing as Celtic and Prussian crosses are different in design. However, the most common cross you find these days is the Catholic cross, hence my conclusion that it's a plus sign."

_"I don't know who he is. I never saw him before so I don't think he's from this neighbourhood. I was really surprised, I mean, how'd you feel if you suddenly saw a corpse on your way to the bus stop? I almost screamed, but I didn't want to disturb people, so I called the police instead. Why does this keep happening?! It's awful and I think these 'gang wars' have to stop."_

Skipper frowned as he leaned forwards, trying to get a closer look at the TV screen. "Don't tell me if I'm wrong, but the dead man looks like a dead gang member."

Rico silently nodded to show his support. Miss Perky had moved from his lap to being crushed between his broad chest and his arms. She was worried; he could feel her growing anxiety. As a good mate, the least thing he could do was to give her a nice, calming hug.

"He certainly does, Skipper," Private agreed. "I would be more convinced if he wasn't sporting a kemonomimi hoodie, though." The young boy flushed when his teammates stared at him with a questioning look. "Umm... kemonomimi? You know, hoodies with ear-like extensions?"

"While I am well-versed in several languages, I am unfamiliar with that phrase."

The boy giggled. "It's not strange if you never heard it, Kowalski. It's a new Japanese trend, you see. The man on the telly is wearing one with round ears, like Mickey Mouse."

A wide smile made its way to the weapon's expert's scarred face. "Kyoot." The hoodie _was _rather attractive. Should he get one for Miss Perky?

_"...sightings of celebrity ESPer—"_

The screen abruptly blacked out. Skipper stood behind Rico, holding the remote in his hand. "I think that's enough telly this morning. I'm going out for a while. Kowalski, you're coming with me. Private, do an inventory check; I want a complete list of everything when I get back. Rico, do whatever you want. Go play with Miss Perky or something. Just stay inside."

The scientist powered off his laptop, rose from his seat and followed his team leader, who was already waiting at the door. "Is this related to the message at all?"

"Did you pay attention to the news?" Skipper's gaze was fixed on an inexistent spot across the road. "Birch Close is one road away from Star Lane Park. I think it's worth checking out. And get the wallet, will you?"

"Stopping for some clothes, are we?"

Skipper smirked. "Costumes, Kowalski. We call them costumes."

...

**Maryland Street, London - 0716 hours**

The girl leaned lazily against the milk white cash machine, looking at the pink clock hanging above the door. Ten hours to closing time. She groaned, faceplanting on the cherrywood desk, silently wondering why she chose this job.

When the silver bell on top of the door rang, indicating the arrival of a customer, she immediately jumped in her seat and put on a bright smile. "Welcome to Rêveuse Ceri—"

"Save it, woman." Skipper interrupted, holding up his palm. "We're here to see your boss."

"And please, do not dilly-dally," Kowalski added airily. "We don't have much time."

The smile on the girl's face instantly vanished, replaced with a frown. "Who are y—"

"Classified."

"What are y—"

"Classified."

"Why are y—"

Skipper smirked. "Classified."

The girl glared. "I'm calling the police!"

"Alright, that's enough," Called out a voice from the back of the room. A woman stepped in front of the two men. "In the storage, Flora."

"But—"

"The storage." She repeated in a harsher tone, glaring at her retreating employee.

"So you're the owner here?"

The busty woman narrowed her emerald green eyes, looking into Skipper's eye. "Only I seem to know cavemen eat iPods for breakfast."

Kowalski crossed his hands in front of his chest. "Overripe bananas make my chimpanzee dance the Macarena in drunken stupor."

She smiled. "Joker." Flipping her silky maroon hair, the woman signaled the two men to follow her. "Didn't expect you to come today."

"This is unplanned, actually," Skipper said with a shrug. "How's business, Cramoisi?"

"Just Ann, _s'il vous plaît_." The redhead said in a flawless English. "Very boring. Day in, day out, people in, people out. Not a single colleague in sight. Until you guys of course. I shouldn't have volunteered to be an exchange agent."

"_Causa superior et fortior aura_."

"Are you telling me to overthrow the director?"

"Negative. Stay in the kitchen, woman."

Ann snorted. "Sexist bastard."

The three adults entered a changing room. Ann ghosted her left wrist over a 3-D cherry sticker at the top corner of the mirror. A flat scanner hidden in the sticker recognized the microchips in the charms of her ruby bracelet. In less than five seconds, a clever mechanism moved the long mirror sideways, revealing the entrance to a medium-sized soundproof chamber.

Kowalski whistled. "You upsized the room."

"I had to." The mirror shifted back into place once everyone was inside. "They brought in five people last time. Jerks. They have no idea how hard it is to get blood out of these pads."

Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Suitcases?"

"Guitar bags." Ann chuckled at the tuxedo-clad man's expression. "I know, right?" She walked over to the other end of the room, her cerise high heels squishing the padded floor with every step. The green-eyed lady plopped down on a wooden chair, noting the rickety noise it made. She'd have to buy a new one later. "So, what do you need this time, _Manchot_?"

...

**Birch Close, London - 0755**

"What do you see?"

"Police, curious civilians, annoying reporters."

"Any trails?"

Kowalski peered into the pair of binoculars in his hands. "It was well cleaned up," his vision moved sideways. "But there are some remains at the junction between here and Avondale, at the corner near the park."

Skipper picked at the hem of his blue sweater. He never liked casual clothes very much. "Why are you using binoculars?"

"To save acommodation power."

"In English, please."

"My eyes still get tired if I use _it_ too much. This is not a very pressing matter, therefore I prefer utilizing the aid of a machine."

"Machine? What machine?"

"The binoculars, Skipper."

"Binoculars don't have engines."

"Technically, a machine is a tool that reduces the effort required to displace a load."

"I don't see your point."

Kowalski rolled his eyes, "Never mind. In any case, the culprits are quite thorough in their work. The gangs here are not as organized as the ones we deal with at New York. To find one that's clever enough to attempt to get rid of the evidence, but also bold enough to leave a clear identifier on the victim is rather—"

"Unusual?"

"Pleasant. Intelligent murderers are a pleasant alternative to hormonal killers."

Skipper smirked. "Although your reasoning is questionable, I can't disagree." He unfolded his previously crossed legs, swinging them past the edge of the building. "Good to go?"

Kowalski lowered his binoculars and stood up, looking down at the array of monochrome cars. The pale man adjusted the police hat sitting on his head. "Why did I get this task again?"

"Because that woman didn't have my size. And do your job right. That means no harvesting the corpse. But if you manage to secure it for your sick hobby, do as you like."

The scientist silently licked his lips.

...

The inspector was irritated. Both civilians and officers have been asking him questions, most of which he had no answer to. Who is this dead man? Who did this to him? Why did they do it? He had no idea, dammit. The forensic team has yet to arrive, he didn't know why either. There was so many things he didn't know right now, and it bugged him. He shot a glare at an officer whose face he couldn't recall - probably a new guy. "You there! Stop lollygagging around and do what I told you to!" He felt bad for yelling at the guy, but hey, he was having a bad day. In his book, it was perfectly justified.

The yelled at officer muttered a quick "yes sir" before moving to crouch next to the dead body. He looked around warily before procuring a resealable plastic packet and a pair of scissors from the pockets of his uniform.

"Stop lollygagging around," the man mumbled under his breath in mock mimicry. "Brainless fool. He couldn't even differentiate an impostor from his own men. Whoever appointed him as a leader is worthy of a good flogging."

He carefully snipped off a lock of silver hair, sealed it in the packet and stowed it away his tools before moving out of sight behind the police cars parked near the crime scene where he promptly took off his uniform and flipped it inside out, turning it into an emerald parachute jacket. Casually placing his hat on the roof of a police car, the lanky man reappeared in public dressed as a civilian, walking out to Percy Road and turning left towards his destination.

Forget securing the body, he was _pissed_.

...

Skipper idly flipped the page of the newspaper, trying to look as if he was an average man who likes to read in the park. At that moment there was nothing more he wanted than to see his second-in-command enter his line of vision, and waiting is the most boring aspect of recon.

The built man let his mind wander, exploring an elaborately thoughtful side of himself which existence he wasn't even aware of. It was kind of cool - like having a split personality that could never manifest itself corporally, so instead it took over his mental territory. It reminded him of the Space Squid's attack strategy, and he freaked out a bit because the last time he checked, he wasn't a Space Squid.

To distract himself from Space Squids, his mind decided to take him to several days before the recent security breach. Car chases are cool, _very _cool, but not if it ends up killing them all. The reason he hated it when Rico or Kowalski drove was that the former have little to absolutely no understanding of the most basic driving rules despite having taken up to five courses and passed all of them with flying colours, while the latter have no care of right or wrong. They were the speediest drivers they knew, but they also had one hell of a high crash rate due to their awful maneuvers. Private, on the other hand, drove the van like it was made of porcelain. Slow, but precise and graceful in execution. Not the best driver for dangerous times, but if you prioritize vehicle maintenance Private would be the one you want. It probably had something to do with the boy's posh Brit attitude.

Then there was Skipper himself. His own mind had convinced him that seatbelts are hazards instead of safety devices. It told him a phantom tank was always only a few feet trailing behind their van. They didn't tell him that anymore, but he still felt as if they were there. Like it was all real. Like they were bound to go up in flames if he didn't listen. So he sped, trying to evade the tank behind their van. He was trying to save his men's lives, really. Honestly, they should've let him drive all the time. Private was incompetent, Kowalski was the worst example of trustworthy and Rico was demented. Those three would get them killed 50% of the time. His mind said so.

But his mind wasn't making much sense and he felt like he had been landed with the most ourageous team that ever existed. A demented manchild, a guy so mental it's not even funny, a sissy kid. And then there was himself, the...

Well, he wasn't even sure what he is.

Point was, together they fight crime. And what wonderful crimes they were fighting.

"...pper. Skipper!"

Skipper abruptly looked up. "Hm?"

Kowalski had his mouth set in a grim line. The man stared into Skipper's disoriented eyes. He was sitting on the bench, gripping the edges of the paper so tightly he tore it. The serene smile on the man's face became disturbing when you notice that his expression had been frozen that way for the past few minutes. "I have collected the necessary samples. We can begin tracking once we return to the flat."

Skipper folded the newspaper and set it aside. He leaned back against the bench, feeling the rough wood scrape against the wool material of his sweater. "Transport options?"

"Public transit, approximately 15 minutes."

"Eh, it's still early. Let's just walk back_._"

Kowalski cocked an eyebrow. "Very well."

...

**Lister Hall, London - 0900 hours**

Private stole a glance at the clock on the wall. Skipper and Kowalski have yet to return, and it was making him worried. He knew he shouldn't fret over two grown up men, but for them to be out together for so long without trying to wring each other's necks was near improbable. He didn't know (nor did he want to know) whatever bad blood existed between the team leader and his second-in-command, but if he had to hazard a guess, he'd say Kowalski thinks Skipper isn't doing his job right. Whether the scientist plans to do a coup d'etat or not, he had no idea, but if it ever happens he will immediately resign and take refuge at Uncle Nigel's.

Private despised the thought of a dispute that would break their team apart; the team had been the best family replacement he ever had, besides his uncle.

He didn't want violence to take it away.

Speaking of family and violence, the young boy had been left with the most violent member of the family. The dark-haired boy peered at Rico from the corner of his eyes. The rugged man was calmly brushing his doll's hair, humming a pleasant little tune to himself.

Rico was the one he was least familiar with in the team. Perhaps it was due to the sheer difference between the two of them, and he didn't only mean size-wise. Private was known as the kid with the heart of gold, the one who would never hurt a snail. On the other hand Rico was rumored to be capable of taking on the Gorilla twins by himself, a feat very few people could manage. Private adored culture, art and literature but the only things he ever saw Rico to be interested in are weapons, explosives and culinary. And Miss Perky. When Skipper first recruited Rico into their team, the scarred man was appointed as medic. It made no sense, considering the circumstances back then, but nobody questioned Skipper's decision.

After only a few days, 'medic' abruptly changed into 'weapons expert'. Nobody questioned it either, but Private could never forget the day it happened. It was a dangerous mission, and the reason they made it back alive is because Rico had detonated five crates of C4. That was also the day Private started hating explosives.

But the thing that confused him was that Rico is very reclusive. Despite his intimidating figure and the multitude of scars, he's very withdrawn and often kept to himself unless he was being talked to. He wasn't socially outgoing, unlike Private. Conversations with him often ended up in awkward silence, mainly contributed by Rico who almost always refused to answer verbally. Private found that out the hard way. Kowalski learned from seeing him fail. Skipper was the only one who had succeeded in having thorough conversations with the man. In fact, Rico was actually willing to _start _a conversation instead of waiting to be approached. But that was only with Skipper, and nobody else.

Deep in the darker creases of his golden heart, Private couldn't help but feel jealous of Rico. It was the admiration they share toward Skipper. Both he and the weapons expert would do just about everything for their beloved team leader, but somehow Private felt that his efforts were often ignored by the man because his attention was focused on the other.

What was it Rico had that he didn't? Violence? Was that it? Did he have to be violent in order to be worth something? Sacrifice his personal ideals for the sake of pleasing his idol?

He sighed to himself, checking the list in his hands once again. _'I have to finish this. I didn't think we brought this many_—_'_

Private jumped a bit when he felt a hand on his narrow shoulders. The boy angled his head up just far enough to look at the man behind him. Rico had an awkward smile on his face "'elp."

"Do you need help with something?"

The muscular man shook his head as he moved to sit on the granite floor. "'elp yoo."

Private's brows furrowed temporarily until he realized what Rico meant. The boy's sapphire blue eyes brightened as he flashed the big man a smile. "Alright then, could you get Kowalski's luggage for me? It's rather heavy."

It didn't take five seconds for Rico to leave the living room and return with a dark green trunk, dropping it unceremoniously next to Private. He gave the surprised boy an apologetic smile; he had not meant to do that, really. The weapons expert moved to sit beside Private, opening the trunk that contained gadgets they had prepared in advance for the mission. The two brothers-in- arms spent the next hour cataloging whatever they found in their strategist's trunk.

"Amnesia mist?"

The weapons expert held up four pink ketchup bottles, oddly labeled 'strawberry sauce'.

Private let his eyes travel up the list they found in the trunk. He didn't even know what half of these things do, or why Kowalski had brought a can of instant gypsum. "DNA scanner?"

"Ehhh yep." It took him a bit longer to find, but the PDA-like gadget couldn't hide at the bottom of the trunk forever.

The boy ticked off the last box on the list. "That should be the last one." Private gave his helper a grateful smile before lowering his head. He was ashamed with himself. So what if Skipper paid more attention to Rico than him? The man was strong, obedient, passionate, helpful and honest. All he could do was be adorable. If anything, the favoritism was perfectly justified. "You really are wonderful. Thank you."

_'And I'm sorry,'_ but that was left unsaid.

The weapons expert bashfully rubbed the back of his head as he placed the last gadget on the table. "Nah, s'kay."

The big man secretly winked at Miss Perky, who was lounging on the couch. He was glad he listened to her and helped Private. The proud smile on her face was worth it all.

...

**Steele Road, London - 1008 hours**

Kowalski rolled a grass stalk he had absently plucked from the park between his fingers. The dark-haired man didn't understand why Skipper suddenly wanted to travel on foot. There were lots of things he had yet to understand, like the exact position of the Milky Way in the universe, what is at the other side of a blackhole, but for him to be incapable of understanding a subject so close to him in distance...

Why is 24 hours considered an Earth day? Because it takes 24 hours for the Earth to complete a full rotation on its axis. Why do our masses on Earth and on the moon differ? Because the gravity on Earth and the moon is different. Why was Skipper in such a good mood? He had no answer to that.

It aggravated him.

On the other hand, Skipper was calmly looking around, taking in the urban view, his hands fitting snugly into the pockets of his black trousers. London isn't all that different from their hometown, really. Nice buildings, a couple of cute trees here and there. The voice in the back of his head had been quieter since they left Star Lane Park. Maybe it could be pacified by traveling on foot? He'd like it if there was an easy way to restrain it.

There was a quaint-looking bookstore at the other side of the road, and an electronics store right next to it. It reminded the built man of his second-in-command's laboratory. On one side, there were at least three bookshelves stacked with... well, books, most of which were filled with words and numbers he didn't understand. On the other side of the steel-reinforced room was a vast collection of the Polish man's tools, gadgets and inventions, all state-of-the-art tech. The only thing that seemed out of place in the lab was a shabby printer, which, in Kowalski's words, looked more like a cinder block.

Much to Kowalski's surprise, Skipper suddenly stepped out to the asphalt road and started to nonchalantly cross the road, ignoring the angry honks that came from passing vehicles.

"What are you doing?"

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"You are not a chicken."

The conversation ended there as the two men crossed Steele Road silently. They stopped in front of the bookstore. Skipper bent down until he was on eye-level with a book on display. His curious lieutenant looked around him to see what literary work had caught his attention.

"Sun Tzu? Really?"

"It's good. Coming from someone like me who doesn't read much, that's something."

"Why do you even reminisce anymore?"

The leader raised an eyebrow. "Don't you?"

"No." The scientist turned around, gripping his elbows around his torso. The green parachute jacket was warm, but it felt uncomfortable. "Recalling something you do not wish to recall is unnecessarily foolish and redundant."

Skipper stood, dragging his fingers against the cloudy glass. "Why do you hate it so much?"

His question was left unanswered as Kowalski walked away to the other store. Not that he expected an immediate answer. It has been one full year, but the Polish man still refused to be peeled. If the banana wanted to take refuge in being overripe, that's fine. Once the blackened flesh and maggot-bitten holes are exposed, that will be his own problem to solve.

Kowalski dragged his lapis lazuli eyes across the array of electronic devices. His gaze settled upon a sleek black printer. _'Look at you,' _the curly-haired man thought. _'So beautiful. Unlike that piece of junk back at New York.'_

The printer he now had used to reside at Team Lemur's quarters. Maurice was so disgusted by it, he immediately made a proposal for a new printer. Once it was delivered, he gave his old printer to their team. Kowalski had accepted it back then because theirs was broken beyond repair. Now he could see why Maurice wanted a new unit so badly.

The pale man inspected the printer a bit longer, noting the unit's model should he ever want to file in a proposal. He was about to move on to the laptop next to the printer when he noticed a label at the side of the hardware. The scientist squinted, trying to get a clear read on the label. For some reason it rang a bell in his head. If it was important, he might as well take a look.

Skipper nearly had a heart attack when a loud, unabashed cry came from his right. He looked at the source of the noise. To his surprise, he saw Kowalski running towards him with a wide grin on his face.

"Eureka, Skipper!" Kowalski cried gleefully, his eyes flaming with excitement. "Eureka!"

"Slow down, soldier! What is it?"

The scientist flashed him a Cheshire-like grin. "E and E. I have found the answer."

...

**The Princess Alexandra, London - 1211 hours**

Rita G. Vesper was known for a lot of things; vast knowledge, beauty comparable to that of Aphrodite (if Aphrodite was an Essex girl), and power over a gang thrice the size of the regular ones in Homerton. But saint-like patience is not a virtue to be associated with her.

The tanned woman slammed her foot on the table, crushing a brittle ash tray under her jet black stilleto. Strength was also another thing she was infamous for; a physically weak person could never lead a gang after all.

"Demmie," she started, her usually sultry voice thick with sweetness. "What did I tell you about killing them?"

The similarly tanned woman across her gulped. She had seen others been in her current place from behind the queen bee herself. They had groveled, got on their knees, begged for mercy. She knew _exactly_ what would happen to people like that. If she was going, she would not go the way they did. "It's just one rat."

"And you're not lying." It was a statement, not a question. "How many times do I have to make it clear?" Vesper stared at her underling. "Recite yesterday's lesson, please."

"Rats are to be disposed completely in sterile conditions. Leave... leave..." _'Crap.'_

"Leave no remains to ensure there is no chance of bacterial contamination," The blonde woman lifted her head, drawing out a long breath. "Did you? Oh, wait. I shouldn't have asked." Vesper continued, not sparing her terrified subordinate a single glance. "You were never the obedient type to begin with, were you?"

Demmie's trembling fingers rose to her mouth. "I-I-I didn't... I forgot!" _'Shaddup shaddup why are ya still talkin'! Don'cha like yer goddamn life anymore ya stupid bitch—'_

Vesper's smile was sweet. _"_Of course you did. As expected from a _Gyne_." The title was spat out with venom so subtle you couldn't even tell if you didn't understand its conotation - the true meaning of being a Gyne in their ranks. The woman leaned back into the plush maroon sofa, her left hand reaching for an amber pipe at the corner of the mahogany coffee table. "Despite the actions I should be taking right now, I'm in a generous mood." She idly lit the pipe, placing it in between her full lips. "Carol Demara, thirty seconds headstart. Dismissed."

The only door in the dark room was opened and left that way in less than two seconds. Vesper's expression seemed to have froze as she quietly examined the time on her studded wristwatch. She angled her head backwards, her chocolate brown eyes meeting two sets of green.

"Don't you just hate people like that?" The silence she received as an answer was entirely welcome. "I despise beggars, but those who try to weasel their way out are worse."

Vesper sighed, running her leather-clad fingers through peroxide blonde locks. "Alright. Time's up for the lil' bitch. Doll, Silva." Gunmetal clicks were heard. She smiled at the twin stoic ladies behind her. "Sterile disposal, yes?"

The Queen watched as the two Drones left the room in pursuit of the Gyne on the run. Vesper exhaled, watching rivulets of grey smoke float and disperse into the air. After a few moments of idleness, the tall woman stood up and exited the back room. She ignored the stares she got from the bar's early comers, walking out to the street. Vesper looked up at the bright morning sun, smiling as she bathe in the golden light.

UV rays. Nothing fitter for someone like her.

...

**A/N:** I deploy artistic liberty whenever it's necessary, hence several changes to real-life locations (I don't think TPA has a room like that).

_SkileneFTW_: I intend for confusion to be a side-effect to reading this story. You being confused tells me I'm doing it right. Thank you.

_Batmanskipper_: Thank you for your interest in the plot. I must say, I am a fan of your stories, especially Do You Really Want To Know and its sequel, Like Father Like Son. In fact, those two stories partly inspired me to write this.

_mary_: Despite what you may think, 'Sheldon' is not Skipper's real name. I don't intend to reveal his real name until much later. About Uncle Nigel, I have special plans for his role in this story. Which will also come much later. Yes, patience is definitely the key here.

_LoverOfThings_: You're welcome. I can see why you like Arlene now, thank you. As for Kowalski and his character... you are correct in describing it as 'little'. Being in character with to the series is not what I had intended for him. However, it doesn't mean he can't act like the penguin we know once in a while.

_A Friend_: A portfolio? Sounds interesting. Oh, it's getting better alright (but I guess that depends on the reader). Here's a quick update for you. Enjoy!

...

_Reviews feed Mort.  
These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.  
It would be wise of you to follow their noble action._


	7. Man Dem

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter Six  
**Man Dem

**Lister Hall, London – 1257 hours**

Private and Rico jumped in surprise when the front door of their flat was suddenly slammed open. Kowalski entered first, followed by their leader who fortunately remembered to shut the door after entering. When the scientist saw his trunk on the floor, he immediately dropped to his knees and dug into the open box. He then proceeded to flip the fuck out when he couldn't find what he was looking for.

"Where the _bleep_ is my DNA scanner?!"

Skipper twitched at the deliberate censor. He was glad Kowalski remembered the don't-swear-near-Private rule, but he wished the genius would at least do it in a less painfully obvious manner.

Rico snapped out of his shock at the mention of the DNA scanner. The scarred man scrambled towards the coffee table, grabbing the PDA-like device in his hands. "'Walski!"

"Oh, thank science you found it." Kowalski said, swiping the gadget out of Rico's hands. Pulling open his jacket's zipper, the pale man reached into the police uniform side of his costume and pulled out a plastic packet. "Somebody dial up Team Lemur for me this instant!"

"On it!" Private cried. He had no idea what was going on, but after being in the team for half a year, he learned to respond to the scientist's demands almost instantly. Kowalski rarely tells people around, but if he barks at you to jump, the only authorized reply is 'how high'.

Meanwhile, Skipper took the liberty to turn on the laptop. "Hurry up," the slightly tanned man mumbled to himself, impatiently tapping his foot. He quickly typed in the password into the login screen and opened a word file titled 'London' on the desktop. He scrolled down to the bottom of the document where Kowalski had typed out the secret message. "Kowalski, you _genius_!"

"Of course," the scientist replied automatically while he carefully placed the silver lock of hair he had collected from the corpse on the screen of the DNA scanner. It only took a few seconds for the result to be displayed above the device as a holograph. Kowalski read the information provided under the virtual bust model. "Male, Caucasian, brown— ah, I see he dyed it..."

"K'walski! It's connected!"

"Hand it over, Private." He took the standard issue communication device from the young boy's hands, pressing it to his right ear. "Lima Kilo Three-Niner, this is Delta—"

_"Can it, lieutenant. I don't do military speak."_

"I'm sorry, Maurice," the reply was automatic, but it's better than none. "Is this line secure?"

_"Like a triple encrypted key."_

"Good enough. I need you to identify someone of British nationality for me."

_"Gimme a moment,"_ rustling papers could be heard in the background._ "Okay. Read."_

"Male, Caucasian, approximately sixteen years old, approximately six foot nine. Green slanted eyes, wavy brown hair, thick eyebrows, short eyelashes, single eyelids, button nose, dark diamond freckles, dimple on the left cheek, two moles beside the right eye, high cheekbones, shall I send you a dental structure model?"

_"I swear you sound like a stalker. Carry on."_

Kowalski tapped the PDA a few times. "Check your email. Thin lips, narrow shoulders, short waisted, narrow hips. Long tailbone - oh, that's rather unusual. Long arms and forearms, short hipbones, short thighs, size fourteen shoes. UK average standards. ETA?"

_"I got the model. Call you back in fifteen."_

"That will be appreciated." Kowalski handed the device over to Private. "Thank you. Please return this to where you found it."

Private nodded, retreating into the bedroom. It was his own communicator he had used.

Rico had a lost expression on his face. The only times he had seen his two superior officers so energetic was on missions. As far as he knew, their current mission isn't due to officially start before they reach Oslo. "Naw misshun?"

Skipper temporarily paused reading the text on the screen, staring at the weapons expert. "I'll explain later, okay? I promise."

The weapons expert pouted. "'Kay."

Skipper opened the browser, typing into the quick search toolbar. It didn't take long before results were displayed on the monitor. Skipper randomly picked one and read the information. "Which one is the victim's origin area?"

"I'm still waiting for Maurice." Kowalski rolled his eyes when he heard Skipper groan. "Please be patient for another fifteen minutes."

"That's not fast enough."

"Can you hack into government records?"

"Fine, I see your point."

Rico overheard the conversation and saw his chance to ask for an explanation. "'kipper?"

The leader heard Rico's whine, sighing as he turned to face the scarred man. "Go get Private first. I don't want to explain this twice."

It didn't take long for the weapons expert to collect the last member of their team. Skipper went from the beginning - the hidden message, their quick recon, and finally the conversation with his SIC as they rushed back to the flat.

...

_"What do you mean, the explosion?"_

_"N2F4," Kowalski huffed, trying to regulate his breathing pattern. "It's a compound made from two elements: nitrogen and fluorine. These are the identifiers for E-blank and E-blank."_

_Skipper frowned in confusion but kept his eyes on the pavement. "Elaborate."_

_"All elements have atomic numbers to indicate the amount of protons or electrons in the atom. Nitrogen's atomic number is seven. Fluorine's atomic number is nine. Therefore E-blank and E-blank can be identified as E7 and E9."_

_"But it's N2F4. Seven times two is fourteen."_

_"Nine times four is thirty six. There is no E36."_

_"So two and four isn't important?"_

_"Only to indicate which one comes first."_

_"What's E7 and E9?"_

_Kowalski whipped out his PDA from inside his green parachute jacket. "Forest Gate Upper Town and Hackney Homerton respectively. The battlefield is West Ham. West Ham is E15. E15 is located between E7 and E9. It's a territorial dispute we're looking at here."_

_"How'd you figure it out?"_

_The scientist smirked. "Color codes."_

_Skipper cocked an eyebrow. "Say what?"_

_"Computerized color codes, Skipper. 0600FF is the code for cyan. The letter-number pattern is reminiscent of both London's postal codes and chemical formulas." The Polish dark immigrant tapped his forehead twice. "I suppose my baby still needs a reminder once in a while."_

_"I thought Jiggles is your baby?"_

_"He's my other baby."_

_"Who's the other daddy?"_

_"Don't sidetrack me, my cerebrum is on fi_— _are you trying imply I'm homosexual?!"_

_..._

Skipper scratched the back of his head. "The conversation sort of goes downhill from there, but you get the point."

Rico giggled, pointing at an irritated Kowalski. "If you must know, I am not attracted to men."

Private stared at his leader in awe of the tale. "Are we initiating an impromptu mission?"

"That's right," Skipper smiled. "I wanted to tell you this on day one, but I thought you weren't ready." He sighed. "I really don't like admitting this, but... I might've been wrong."

The two younger members of Team Penguin cheered. Private high-fived Rico, and soon they were chattering noisily about the mission. They stopped when faint beeps were suddenly heard coming from the other side of the room.

"I'll go get it!" Private stood up, running to the bedroom. Skipper scooted to the chair next to him, letting Kowalski take over the laptop. Rico went to sit beside Miss Perky; he couldn't wait to tell her about everything!

Private returned in a matter of seconds with his communicator. "Here you go, K'walski."

"Thank you. Maurice?"

_"The guy you're looking for is Mike Tyler. He's came to England from America ten years ago. He lives in Forest Gate, London. Apparently he died of severe bleeding just yesterday."_

Kowalski's smile was dark. "Oh, we know."

_"You_— _God dammit, what did you do?"_

"As a matter of fact nothing. What was that you said about him living in London?"

_"Tyler lives at Forest Gate."_

"Forest Gate? E7, then." Kowalski said, typing into the word file. "Any useful information?"

_"He's got infractions."_

"Go on."

_"He has been arrested twice, first for underage drinking, second for drug business. He used to sell stuff around the neighborhood. He wasn't doing it alone, though."_

"Who else is involved?"

_"A couple of other guys, probably his friends."_

"Are there any ways to identify them?"

_"Give me a moment. They're all part of a street gang called the Forest Gate Rats. They usually hang out around West Ham during the day and go back to their lair at night. You can tell it's them from their clothing."_

"Describe."

_"Light gray hoodie - kind of looks like Julien's. Most of them dyed their hair silver and wear red contact lenses to match the look of a white rat. Bottom pieces vary - usually ripped jeans, bleached. They use color codes too."_

"Grey?"

_"And red. For some reason they don't vandalize buildings, only trash cans and signposts. Their gang symbol is two horizontal stripes - grey on top, red on bottom, spray-painted on objects."_

"Thank you for your aid, Maurice. Your help is very valuable to us."

The voice at the other end laughed somberly. _"I haven't outlived my usefulness, have I?"_

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask Julien about that." The scientist immediately severed the line, not wanting to waste time. "Skipper?"

The team leader cleared his throat. "Okay. I'll only repeat this twice, so listen closely. When I'm done, do simulations in your head. Success rates may vary according to familiarity with the plan. Kowalski, fill in the blanks and correct the loopholes, if there's any. Here's the plan."

...

**Star Lane Park, London - 1345 hours**

"Did'cha hear?"

"Yup. Tyler, right?"

A teenage male kicked an empty can, watching the piece of trash tumble across the dry grass. "Y'think we oughta find mo' people?"

"Don't know," His shorter friend said, treading his hand through his hair. "Don't think anyone wants to, not after what happened yesterday."

"Ah kinda feel sorry for 'im, y'know."

"Was his own fault, going round at night. Those bitches are always out when it's dark."

The former teen furrowed his brows. "They got 'is load, ah heard. Izzat true?"

"All three packets."

"Damn. King ain't gonna be happy."

"He already isn't— fuck!"

"Oh! So sorry," A young-looking boy took a few steps backwards from the male he had bumped into. "Are you alright?"

The boy's question was answered with a rough grab to his collar. "You little shit! Watch where you're—"

"Winsor, yer scarin' the kid."

"Don't give a rat's ass! Gonna teach him a lesson!"

Winsor moved to punch the boy, only to for his fist to be blocked with a swift grab. In a blink of an eye, the short man was pushed backwards by a hard jab to his sternum. Before he could retaliate, a low swipe knocked him off his foot and sent him sprawling on the grass.

The man gasped, looking up from his place on the ground, startled when a hand entered his line of view. The boy bent down, offering him a helping hand. "I am sorry for being repetitively boring, but are you alright?"

Winsor growled, getting ready to pounce on the stranger. He would have if his companion didn't grab his shoulder, effectively preventing a fight from breaking out. "Let go, Jose!"

"Dude, quit it!" Jose pulled him back forcefully, causing both of them to stumble backwards. He lowered his voice so that only the two of them could hear. "Kid's exactly what we need!"

"The hell do you mean?"

"Lookit 'im. Kid got guts, packs a mean punch, an' 'e's cute. One helluva new recruit."

"God dammit, you can't be— Jose!"

Pointedly ignoring his friend the brown-skinned man approached the boy with his hands on his hip, noting that he had been quietly watching the two from a distance. "Oy, kid. Sweet moves ya got there. Y' got a name I could say?"

"Will. My name is Will."

"So, Will, whaddya think 'bout comin' with us?"

"I suppose that depends on who 'us' is."

Jose laughed good-naturedly. "Y' ain't half bad, kid. Stay here, would'cha? I'm gonna go get m' bruvvas so 'dey can meet'cha."

Will shrugged, nodding. He watched quietly as Jose walked away from the park down a nearby road, literally dragging his fuming friend along. It didn't take long before he returned with another fellow gang member. "There he's. Cute kid, ain't he? Kicks ass, tho'."

"Looks like a softie to me. Ya sure he's good?"

Winsor snorted derisively. "He's a wimp."

Jose glared. "Naw, he's just polite. N'like you."

"We're not seriously recruiting this _brat_."

Will silently watched the two men banter back and forth with a serene smile on his face.

"Shaddup Winsor, if 'e kicked yer ass that's yer own problem. Whaddya think, Sam?"

The addressed man sighed, scratching an itchy spot on his head. "See, how 'bout we bring him back to King? Let King decide."

Jose shrugged. "Eh, why da 'ell not."

"You shitheads aren't fucking listening! Goddamn assholes!"

Will tilted his head sideways. For some reason he was hearing a lot of bleeps. "Excuse me, but do I have any say in this?"

His inquiry was answered with a heated glare. "_Brats_ don't get a say in anything," Winsor spat venomously. "So shut the hell up."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Can we go now?"

"'Course," Jose said, a little too quickly. Winsor might be his friend, but he could get annoying with his sore loser attitude sometimes. "C'mon, Will. We're gonna show ya who 'us' is."

The boy smiled brightly. "Okay."

...

**Disraeli Road, London - 1411 hours**

The heavy metal door creaked loudly as it was pushed aside. Will silently looked around, his vivid green eyes seemingly glowing in the dark warehouse. While Sam guided the boy, Winsor went over to the wall and flipped the switch on, flooding the place with light.

Jose walked to the center where a group of guys between ages twelve to twenty and above sat in a circle. Money and cards were strewn around them in a haphazard manner, almost as if the rectangular pieces of paper didn't matter.

One of them looked up as he approached them. "Well, if it ain't Josie. Back already?"

"Say m'name right, Remy." Jose grinned. "I got someone y'guys might wanna see."

"Is he important?"

Jose rubbed the back of his head. "Well, 'e's a new recruit. Kicked Winsor's ass, 'e did." Eyes immediately locked on Will, who was standing behind him. "Guys. M'face's up here. Anyway, here 'e's. C'mon, kid, say sumthin'."

"Hello everyone, I'm Will. Nice to meet you."

Remy frowned. "Y'sure this kid kicked Winsor's bum? This is Winsor we're talkin' about."

"S'prised me too, but 'e did! Y'wanna recap?"

"Oh fuck you, Jose."

Jose glared at his friend. "_Winsor_."

Winsor snorted. "They're all old enough to hear this shit. It's not like they're five."

"He looks a bit older than me," A boy blurted, furrowing his brows. "Sixteen, maybe."

Will smiled at him. "And a half."

A childish grin blossomed on the scrawny boy's face. "Name's Percy. I'm fourteen."

"Percy," the reply was awkward and delayed. The blonde teen seemed hesitant as he spoke, but nobody noticed. "Nice to meet you."

Sam scrunched up his nose as his gaze swept across the vast room. "Where's King?"

"Went out," A large male replied, shrugging his wide shoulders. "Bar maybe?"

"King don't do bars, said so 'imself," Jose piped in.

"Well we can't just recruit the baby."

"If yer so unsure, we'll test 'im." Suddenly Jose felt a tug on his sleeve. When he turned he saw Will looking at him with wide eyes. "Yea?"

"Excuse me, but is there a restroom here?"

"Sure. S' at that corner."

Jose watched the boy go with an amused smile. It's hard to find a kid like that these days. Just because he was in a gang didn't mean he didn't like interacting with nice people. Winsor, however, was the exact opposite of him. The short man prided himself in being a part of a gang, employed violence in whatever situation he was landed in, picked on civilians who had nothing to do with them despite already being told not to look for unnecessary trouble.

If only his friend could learn from this boy. Jose silently shook his head, knowing it was unlikely for Winsor to change. The colored man walked back to the center of the room, joining fellow gang members in a discussion regarding their new recruit's qualification test.

...

The same smile had been on his face for a long time. Will stepped into the small cubicle, trying not to gag at the smell. He lifted his hand to his ear, pressing a device concealed behind it.

"Sierra Sierra Seven-One, this is Charlie Delta Five-Four. At phase two of the plan. Requesting further instructions. Over."

Crackles filled his ear before a low voice came in. _"Charlie Delta Five-Four this is Sierra Sierra Seven-One. Activate the bug and proceed with caution. Read back for check. Over."_

"Sierra Sierra Seven-One, this is Charlie Delta Five-Four. I read back: activate the bug and proceed with caution. Wilco. Over."

_"Charlie Delta Five-Four this is Sierra Sierra Seven-One. Correct. Out."_

Will sighed, dropping his hands to his sides. He spent some time squirting water into the toilet bowl before flushing it. Before he got out, the blonde boy took his time to glare at the plastic door. Smiling gets boring after a while.

...

**Lister Hall, London - 1417 hours**

Skipper stretched, getting up from the floor. He did say bad things about the sweater, but this is much worse. He tugged at the dark uniform he wore. It was very uncomfortable. He preferred tuxedos. He turned to face his SIC. "Time?"

Kowalski checked his watch. "2 minutes and 38 seconds earlier than we had planned."

Rico's smile blossomed into a grin. "Now?"

Skipper scratched his chin. "I like to be exactly on time, but what the hell. Come on, men."

The team leader and the weapons expert both leaped down to the road straight from the roof, whereas the strategist took his time joining his teammates in a more conventional way.

Skipper rolled his eyes, resting his head on the steering wheel of the van. "You just _had _to take the stairs." Rico was stifling giggles from his place at the passenger seat.

Kowalski climbed into the rented vehicle. "I won't risk harming my glasses. Do you know how inconvenient it is to be far-sighted?"

Skipper scoffed. "Sure. Nancy cat."

The weapons expert laughed, accidentally chugging up a bomb.

...

**Disraeli Road, London – 1424 hours**

Claps resounded in the warehouse followed by hoots and yelled provocations. Will stood at the center of the crowd, back straight with one arm angled in front and the other folded behind his back. Across him was Percy in a fighting stance resembling that of a boxer. Both were sweating profusely, trying to regulate their breaths.

Percy's lips stretched into a wild grin. "You're darn _good_! Jose wasn't lying."

"I have a god-like mentor," Will smiled. "You're quite proficient as well. Is that Muay Thai?"

"Yeah. I spent my childhood at Pattaya."

"I see. That's nice."

The conversation ended there when Will, quick as lightning, flash-stepped forward to attempt a jab at Percy's solar plexus. Percy reacted in an instant, blocking it with his left femur. Percy pushed against his opponent with his weight, forcing Will to take a step backward. Will didn't allow the fourteen-year-old a chance to strike, barreling past his right side. A quick flick to the ear did the trick. Percy wheeled to the left, face meeting Will's waiting palm. Thinking quickly, Percy gripped the blonde's wrist and executed an upwards kick, negating Will's initial plan to throw him down to the ground. His kick was for naught, however, as it hit the empty air where Will's torso used to be. Percy had regained his vision, but in doing so he gave his opponent the time to create a distance between them.

Remy spared a split-second to inspect his nails before going back to watch the fight. "Ain't this taking kinda long?"

"Yea," Jose said, leaning against an aggravated but silent Winsor. "But it's damn fun."

"I think those two need a break."

Will huffed as he eased his stance, letting his hands fall. "May I take a break, please?"

Jose raised an eyebrow. "An' 'e's a mindreader too. Sure, kid, go sit somewh—"

All eyes abruptly turned towards the large door in sync with the sudden sound of knuckles rapping against metal. Remy frowned, walking towards the door. "What the hell?"

He wasn't given a chance to greet whoever had knocked as an explosion flung metal and brick over the shocked man's head. The force of the explosion was so great, the other side of the warehouse was littered with concrete and iron. Percy and Jose yelped in surprise when they were both tackled to the ground by none other than Will, bits of debris safely flying past them.

"Stay down," the blonde boy warned them, his voice strangely calm. "Don't move unless I say so." The two gang members could only nod, utterly clueless about the situation.

The gang members gathered around the front entrance - or rather, what was left of it. Smoke and ash floated about, obscuring the view of what, or who, had caused the explosion.

Silence ensued for a few seconds. To the gang members in the warehouse, though, it felt like minutes. They stood still, paralyzed. Some had automatically shifted into fighting stances, expecting the worst to happen - police storming in, rounding them up like sheep, putting them in handcuffs and shipping them off to the grey bar hotel.

The noiseless moment was over when the silhouette of a man— no, _three _men gradually appeared into view from inside the smoke. Jose angled his head just enough to get a good look at the strangers. His current position made the muscles on his neck cry, but the thought only briefly crossed his mind as his focus was spent solely on observing the intruders.

"Greetings, civilians," said the first man, who was shorter than the other two. He stood with his left hand in the pocket of his pants. The man lifted his other hand, revealing a gun. "We can do it the easy way, or _his_ way," he pointed at the tallest man in the group. "Or his way," he pointed at the other person, shrugging. "I don't really give a damn. I just want this done."

The three stepped forth out of the dissipating smoke, revealing a dark-haired man, a grinning brunette and a bored-looking redhead. The first pointed the Glock in his hand upwards.

"So, which one of you is Private?"

...

**A/N: **I'm sorry for the lame 'action'. I suck at writing fight scenes. And by suck, I mean really, _really _suck. I can't describe battles even if my life depends on it. If you have suggestions to improve my writing or requests for certain scenes (provided they're relevant to the storyline), shoot. I could use all the help I can get.

_mary_: Thank you. Like a big brother? I suppose that's a pretty nice way to describe it. I assure you, the wait will be worth it.

_LoverOfThings_: 'Not nice to each other'. That's the key. You just figured out the key. Good job! What's the use of this key, you ask? Eh... I don't think I want to answer that just yet. Hope you enjoyed that.

_A Friend_: I wouldn't really call myself 'nice', but if you insist. I'm glad you still like it so far.

...

_Reviews feed Mort.  
These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.  
It would be wise of you to follow their noble action._


	8. Intermission One

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter Seven  
**Intermission One: Otter

**C.P.Z., Inc. Headquarters, New York – 1409 hours**

It was getting better, Arlene noted. The people weren't as negative as when the three of them first came. Some still avoid them like a plague, some kept up a hostile approach (Darla and her girls definitely came to mind there), but there were people who actually tried to be nice. The leucistic girl laughed along with the crowd as they watched Bing trip up Burt, causing the grey-haired man's empty tray to fly into the air before landing on Roy's head.

Arlene averted her attention back to her lunch, pinching a bunch of enoki with her chopsticks. Ignoring the raging three-man chase going on in the background, she turned to look at her sullen twin sister. "Not eating, Marlene?"

The brunette scooped out the flesh of an oyster with her fork. "I'm eating."

"But you're not enjoying it." The girl in the milk white coat pointed out. "That's not a good way to eat. And why are you using a fork? There's a spoon right there, you know."

"There's no good way to eat." Marlene absently rolled the empty oyster shell around, its flesh set aside on the edge of the plain plastic plate. She eyed the spoon that sat, untouched, beside the plate. "Eating is eating. That's it."

A spiky-haired girl snorted derisively from her place across the two siblings. Arlene smiled in triumph. "See? Even Marilyn agrees with me," the blonde pointed at their companion, sighing. "Even if you don't like talking about it, you can at least say what's wrong. You've been acting like this since we came here."

Marlene scoffed, resting her chin on her palm. "I don't want to be here. This isn't where we're supposed to be." The teen glared at the table, wishing the force of her glare alone could burn holes into it. "I want to go back home."

"Back to New Delhi?" Arlene smiled at her own lame joke before settling on a grimmer tone. "I don't like this either, you know. But it _was _our fault in the first place, snooping into something that's none of our business. I think this is pretty well-deserved."

"You'd stay?" The girl's gaze was piercing, her words riddled with accusation.

"I'd stay." Her imperfectly born twin answered, lips set in a firm line. "But only because there's nothing we can do about it. Might as well enjoy what's being served on the table."

"You say that as if we have no choice."

"Because we don't. Deal with it."

"We came breaking in, we'll go breaking out."

The laughter was humorless. "They caught us breaking in, they'll catch us breaking out."

Marlene provided no response, her amber eyes fixed on the oysters laid out in front of her. She silently poked the greyish flesh with a fork, still refusing to touch the spoon. The brunette wouldn't admit it, but her leucistic twin was right. _'Sure is good to be pessimistic,' _was her sarcastic thought as she skewered one lump of shellfish and popped it into her mouth.

The meal went on uneventfully. Both twins had lost a good portion of their appetite, biting into their food joylessly whereas their boyish friend nonchalantly stuffed herself with more chow mien. Marilyn thought it was silly of the two to argue over such a stupid suggestion. As far as she could see, this place had no boring classes, no stereotypical jocks, no annoying lecturers, no alpha bitches— oh, wait, there's Darla. She stood corrected on the 'bitch' part, but all in all, it was still better than school. The teenage girl eyed the bottle of hot sauce in front of her. It had been there since they came into the mess hall, which was funny because as far as she remembered, the tables were always cleared before and after meal session. Then again, why complain when you get free hot sauce? Marilyn grabbed the bottle and popped the lid open.

Nobody really knew what happened, but right as the lid came off, the amber-eyed girl's face was immediately splattered with red paste. The insides of the bottle came out in a small but explosive burst; whatever was near it became victim to hot sauce. Marilyn was no exception. The teenager let out a strangled yelp, dropping the bottle and standing up in her seat. The spiky-haired girl did not register the vermilion liquid dripping down her coat, or the concerned calls of her friends. All she knew was that her eyes were burning and she wanted it to stop.

"Littlefoot!" Arlene cried, using the boyish girl's childhood nickname without even realizing it. She rose up from her seat and rushed over to her friend's side. "Are you alright?!"

Marlene was about to do the same when she heard laughter coming from the table behind them. Two mischievous-looking girls sat there; one was giggling like a child on sugar rush, her ponytailed friend madly cackling along. The duo bore enough resemblance to each other to infer that they were twins, or at least related.

The brunette instantly knew what was going on. "You! Why did you do that to her?!"

A ponytailed girl blinked at her several times, tilting her head to the side in a mock display of confusion. "Do what to who?"

"Don't play dumb with me," Marlene growled. "I know you used pressurized carbon to pull that trick off. Now, _why did you do it_?"

"Why? Why, why, why..." She turned to look at her companion, flipping her ochre hair behind her. "Stacy, _why _did we do... whatever it is that we did?"

Her redheaded companion shrugged. "They're boring, Becky." Grinning cheekily, Stacy added, "We just... _spiced_ things up a bit."

The two giggled at the pun, oblivious to the fury being sent in waves from their victims.

Marlene glared. "_This _is spicing things up?!"

"That's enough," Arlene interjected before her twin could say anything that could land them in more trouble. "Let's help Marilyn clean up."

The three girls soon left the dining room, their unfinished food abandoned. Someone could be heard complaining about wasted resources, but nobody particularly cared. Business in the mess hall resumed as if nothing had happened.

...

"She'll be fine," Mrs O'Malley, the Chief Medical Officer said. The petite woman smiled at the similar girls in front of her. "Apply this to her eyes twice daily for at least three days." She handed them a tiny bottle of a clear solution. "If irritation occurs or pain persists, please find me or Shawna."

"Thank you, ma'am." Arlene replied, taking the medication into her hands. She slung her arms around Marilyn's shoulders. "Come on, let's go back to our room."

The spiky-haired girl covered her swollen eyes under her left palm. She shook her head hard, voicing her disagreement through action.

Marlene had her hands placed on her hips. She was still unhappy with what happened. "Would you rather go to the training rooms?"

_'I want to blow off some steam.'_

Upon Marilyn's nod, they left the med bay and headed towards the training area. Antonio had given them a thorough tour of CPZ. It was a big place, that was for sure. They still had trouble figuring out where to go sometimes, but there were always people who would offer them help. Granted they were mostly the same people, but it was better than none.

The walk to the training area was short. Arlene occasionally joked to get rid of boredom, while the other two responded in obligation.

"How is a raven like a writing desk?"

Marlene rolled her eyes. "There's no answer to that riddle."

Arlene laughed. "That's exactly why it's more a joke than a riddle."

Training Room Echo was a medium-sized room with mahogany parquet floor and mirror walls. At one side of the room sat two racks of melee weapons, both sharp and blunt. One side of the wall could be opened to reveal a storage room filled with other equipments, such as sandbags and dummies. Barr the weapons racks, it pretty much resembled a simple gym.

The pain in her eyes ebbed, but it was less than a minor discomfort to Marilyn. The dark-haired girl marched towards the storage in search for dummies. While Marlene trailed behind her, the remaining girl approached the weapons racks, her eyes twinkling with curiosity at the sight of a particular set of weapons.

Arlene tentatively ran her fingers against the flat side of a dagger, admiring the way the light shone against metal. Her chrome eyes scanned the racks - what else were there? More bladed weapons came into view: epee, rapier, katana, wakizashi and many others. The ones that truly caught her eyes, however, was an identical pair of scimitars. She couldn't explain it even if she wanted to, but her hand seemed to have moved on its own accord and she soon found herself trying to lift one of the blades without inducing self-injury.

_'Dang, these things are heavier than they look,' _the leucistic girl thought to herself. She huffed in irritation. _'I knew I should've made good use of the gym back in school.'_

After some more straining and grunting, Arlene finally found the strength to lift up one scimitar, albeit with both hands. The light from the lamp glinted off the metal, blinding her for a second. Her grip on the weapon's handle tightened. The teen knew it sounded preposterous, downright _crazy_ even, but the scimitars had called at her. Not just one of them, both. They wanted her to use them the way they should be used.

"Ferociously and relentlessly."

Arlene jumped, her hold faltering for a second. Another hand entered her line of view, holding her wrists together in a firm grasp.

"Careful now," Antonio said, chuckling. "You'll end up cutting yourself if you're reckless."

"How did you know?"

"Ted told me. He directed you here, yes?"

"Not that," Arlene frowned. "How did you know what I was thinking?"

"You were thinking out loud, miss."

The blonde blushed. "Oh."

Antonio laughed lightly. "It's alright. You're not the only person I know who does that."

Their conversation was interrupted by Marlene, who came out of the storage, a white dummy in her arms. "Oh, it's _you,_" the brunette spat with venom. "What do you want?"

The Spaniard coughed into his fist. "Right, um... I wish to apologize in Becky and Stacy's place, regarding the incident that occured at lunch. I wasn't at the mess hall when it happened, so I could do nothing to prevent it. I will punish the girls, and if anything similar happens again, I'll take preventive actions immediately, so long as I'm in the vicinity." The brunet rubbed his nape nervously. "So... will you forgive us, miss?"

Marlene eyed him, contempt visibly present in her eyes. "I don't like what they did, but since Mrs O'Malley said she'll be fine, your apology is accepted. But I see no reason to forgive you if you yourself didn't do anything."

"Discipline within the team is the team leader's responsibility. Friendly fire is not an acceptable behavior. Perpetrators will receive punishment as dictated by the regulation," Antonio paused. "And I forgot the rest. I am only repeating what Mason told me— oh, nevermind."

The name was only mentioned in passing, but it was enough to trigger a memory of her session with the vaguely Asian man. Marlene supressed a shudder, trying to get Mason's sneering face out of her mind. "I got your point." She looked back at Marilyn, who was staring at her. "You go ahead and clobber the doll, m'kay?"

As Marilyn happily set the dummy up, Marlene and Antonio decided to stand aside and watch their companions. To prevent awkward silence, Marlene decided to strike up a conversation. "I was wondering why you have these things."

Antonio raised an eyebrow. "Pardon me?"

"Swords, spears, blades. These things are very outdated. Nobody uses them anymore."

"Oh, blades." Antonio scratched his chin. "True, melee fighters became rare since the invention of guns. That's why we have the shooting range for gunners and archers." He leaned against the wall. "But there are some people who don't like guns. They're rare, but they exist. Including here. We try to accommodate everyone's needs in order to maintain a feeling of fulfillment and belonging." The man chuckled. "Besides, some of these are actually more effective than a gun. A shot to the head won't always kill, but a neat slice is guaranteed death."

"I see." Marlene's eyes observed her twin, who was trying to pick up the other scimitar without dropping the one in her hand. "So this is what everyone here does everyday? Sitting around, basically doing nothing but eat and fight?"

The brunet laughed. "On the contrary, we are quite busy! You have yet to be involved in the business end of our company, that's all."

"And what is this 'business end'?"

"To put it simply, we flush out people." Antonio paused, considering what he just said. "Let me rephrase that. We flush out people who pose as threats to society, ranging from the lowlifes out in the streets to international terrorists."

"You work for the government?"

The man's disgusted expression had caught her off guard. "Anything but that. Some of us even have prices on our heads." A thin smile quickly covered his distaste. "That being said, we work for ourselves. We do have people to answer to, though. You could say we are unaffiliated."

"Why are you doing this?"

"That's a rather vague question."

Marlene scowled. "Why are you risking your lives playing vigilante like this? If you want to bust crime so much, you could apply to official crime-fighting corporations; NYPD, SWAT, even CIA." She scoffed. "You have the skills to. Why be an enemy to both law and crime?"

The answer did not come immediately. Antonio took his time playing with the loose end of his belt before opening his mouth. "Because we have the skills to pull it off; skills that will go unappreciated should we be a part of those official corporations." He paused. "One of our members is an army retiree; a high-ranking one at that. The reason why he quit and joined us instead? Because the army couldn't accept his particularly grey morality." The brown-skinned man smiled at her. "But we can, and we let him adhere to it without having to fear that he will be prosecuted for being himself."

"You essentially fight crime. Isn't it important for to have the right morality to ensure you don't fall to the dark side?"

"Who decides what's wrong and what's right, Miss Marlene?" The man shot her an unusually shrewd gaze. "Morality does not ensure loyalty. Abrupt changes and traumatic experiences can lead to a change of affiliation. This is why we value trust more than anything."

Marlene frowned. "And what of skills?"

"Trustworthiness _is_ a skill; one that is not very revered, sadly. Say, do you remember Burt?"

Marlene nodded. "The guy I followed here?"

"You're not the first person led here by those means. Burt is not a very subtle man, you see. He is in charge of handing out missions for us. Subtlety is unnecessary in his job. But we need someone we can trust not to reveal everything he knows about our operations whether he was asked nicely or interrogated. He never forgets that foremost priority no matter what."

"That's very nice to know, but we're straying from my first question. Why are you doing this? What is your primary motivation?"

The brown-skinned man was a bit stunned. He had once asked himself the same thing, despite joining the corporation by his own will. Antonio resisted the urge to clutch his head as images of the past came forth. He didn't want to mull over bitter memories. There were other people who went through worse. It would be shameful of him to resent such a long forgotten incident when other people succeeded in washing their memories away. _'No. I will not fall for it again.' _Shaking his head, Antonio gave the waiting girl a forlorn smile.

"Well, if I had to describe a common ground for us..." the brunet scratched his stubbled chin. "I suppose it's 'passion for unbridled justice'." He hesitated for a while before continuing. "It's a rather personal matter, but we all have reasons to be part of this. Crime is everywhere, and we want it gone as soon as possible."

"But this is achieved with questionable means." Disapproval was present in the statement.

"Well, as Mason has once said and I now quote, 'law and justice do not necessarily come hand- in-hand'. With all these questions you're asking me, I think you should've taken up journalistics as a course, Miss—"

His words got interrupted by a glare. "Will you drop that pronoun please?"

"Very well," He was unsure, but it couldn't hurt to try. "Marlene." The name did roll off rather nicely from his tongue, he had to admit.

A sudden gleeful cry startled the two. Whipping their heads up, they were met with the view of Arlene with a scimitar in each hand. Her body was slightly bent and her footing staggered, but a wide grin decorated her pale face. She did an experimental outward slash with each hand. It was a joyful sight to see when the leucistic girl repeated the motion several more times before switching to other movements, laughing all the while. "I did it!" Arlene exclaimed. "Did you see that, Marlene?" The blonde giggled. "This is so cool!"

Marlene smiled at her twin. "That's great."

"Good to see you enjoying yourselves," Antonio drawled. Straightening up from his previously leaning position, the Spaniard walked away to the door. "Next time you'd like to use a training room, I suggest you put up a sign in front of the door. Some people can get... possessive. This room in particular is often used by Skipper." The man chuckled. "Of course, there's nothing to worry about if you're using it at uncommon hours. I'll be leaving now, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, sure," Marlene willed herself to smile at him. Acknowledging his efforts to be nice was the least she could do. "Bye, leader."

"Please, call me Antonio. I'll see you again."

Marlene stared quietly at the closing door. The green-eyed man wasn't that bad, really. In fact, he was the only person who has yet to mistreat them in any way. She wasn't quite certain, but she didn't see him point a weapon at the three of them when they were first brought in. Then again he could be at the back of the crowd. The brunette flinched a little when she felt someone nudge her side. It was Marilyn, grinning widely, razor-sharp teeth showing. Even without words, the boyish girl's message came through. "No, I don't like him. Shut up, Littlefoot."

"Not even a bit?" Arlene asked, smugness thick in her voice. She would have came over to poke at her twin, but the scimitars were making that task near impossible. She might have been able to lift them, but they were still heavy.

Marlene rolled her eyes. Those two could be so insufferable sometimes. "I do like him," the girl muttered sourly. "But I don't _like_ him."

"Sure you don't."

"He's _tolerable_," her amber eyes hardened. "A decent person at best. That's all. He's still on their side. I won't forget that."

The pale girl frowned. "Why are you so against being friends with these guys?" She shook her head. "Never mind. Marilyn's done softening up the dummy. It's your turn now."

Marlene waved offhandedly. "Nah. I forgave them. There's no need for that anymore." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "We've spent enough time here. It's almost six; the mess hall will open again." She approached her sibling, helping her hold up the dual blades.

"Aww, and I was just starting to have fun." The twins worked together to replace the scimitars on the rack. Arlene smiled. "Come on, Marilyn. You don't want to miss out on dinner."

The spiky-haired girl pouted, but obeyed. In one fling, she threw the dummy back into the open storage room before trailing behind her friends who were already outside the room.

"I say we prank them back."

"_Arlene_."

"I was kidding! Sheesh."

...

**A/N:** Cliffhanger? What cliffhanger?

_LoverOfThings_: Will I do that? You never know. Is Private Percy? Maybe. Is Will interesting? Well, if you say so. Last question: _did_ the Penguins break in? I think you answered that already. Be more attentive next time, yes?

_mary_: The reviewer before you made a guess. Say, why don't you make one too? Maybe you'll get it right.

_Guest_: Thank you for reassuring me. Although I could still use some advice with action scenes. I don't suppose you have some?

...

_Reviews feed Mort.  
These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.  
It would be wise of you to follow their noble action._


	9. Caught In the Undertow

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter Eight  
**Caught in the Undertow

**Disraeli Road, London - 1426 hours**

"Private? Who the hell's Private?"

"What kind of a mum calls her kid Private?"

"I dunno, a loony one I guess."

Despite being little more than low whispers the words did not went above the man's head. He tutted, clicking his tongue. "Nobody knows? I'm afraid we can't have that." Twirling the Glock in his hand, he walked towards the center of the warehouse. "Not that it's surprising; I thought you wouldn't even be aware of it."

"Hey," the man behind him called, holding up a scarlet cellphone. "Lulu sent us something."

The tallest man -a brunet- licked his lips. "Is it a shopping list?"

The redhead rolled his light blue eyes. "Intel."

"Aww. And I was hoping we could fetch some... _man meat_, too."

"Hand it over," The first man deftly caught the phone thrown at him. A smile crept up on his face as he scanned the screen. "I see... Alright, let's try this," he nonchalantly flung the device back, ignoring his friend's surprised cry - _sweet_ _payback_. "Is anyone here called Percy?"

The petite child heard his name being called. In curiosity, he tried to rise from his position on the floor. However, his attempt was effectively prevented by an arm laid over his neck.

"No!" Will hissed as softly as he could. "Don't. I understand you're confused, but _don't. _For your own sake."

"O-okay..." Percy answered hesitantly, not sure what to think of the situation.

Unfortunately, his effort turned out to be futile when the tallest intruder called out, "_Someone_ at the back seems eager." Emerald orbs shifted across the room, stopping right at Percy.

The sound of combat boots clacking against the ground had never been so intimidating, so they thought. It was as if each step lasted a minute. That was a exaggeration, of course. In exactly twenty steps in less than ten seconds, the dark -haired man had crossed room to crouch next to the three teenagers pressed against the floor.

Rolling his eyes upward, the boy with the snow white hair suddenly felt a chill running down his spine. A pair of vivid orbs stared down at him, accompanied by a soft smile. A finger found its way to his forehead, gently pressing against the expanse of sun-kissed skin.

"Your name is Percy." It was not a question.

The child swallowed thickly. "Yea." He vaguely felt somebody squeezing his shoulder, but his focus was fixed upon the intruder. It's not often you see irises of three different colors.

At first he thought they were contacts, but he could not find the rims of the lenses. Emerald, amber and violet blended together to form twin pools of very genuine, very beautiful eyes.

It was almost petrifying.

The stranger pouted. "Don't look so scared; all I want from you is answers."

"What...?"

"It's simple," the man chuckled. "We're playing twenty questions. I won't ask you that much, of course, but I think you get it."

"Make it quick!" His brown-haired companion yelled, ignoring the other redhead's attempt to shush him. "We still need to get meat!"

The atmosphere in the warehouse did not thin out, even when the intruder suddenly plopped down to the ground, mussing up his formal suit in the process. Patting the back of his jacket in an effort to dust it off, the man sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, the upper half of his body looming over Percy's head. Everyone was silent and tense, watching the scene fold out. At that moment, it was possible to hear a pin drop.

"Question number one," he held up one finger above the boy's face. "What's your name?"

"P-Percy."

The man scratched his chin. "Maybe I should be more specific. What's your full name?"

"Percival... Percival Rambuck."

"Hmm. Question number two: are you a liar?"

Percy frowned. "Was that a trick question?" His eyes widened when he heard the click of a gun. "Wait! I'm not a liar, I swear it."

A satisfied nod. "Good boy. Number three - this will be a bit tricky, so I'll give you time to think it out." The man paused, as if unsure he should continue. "Can you keep promises?"

True to the man's words, the boy took his time. Half a minute passed until an reply was given; even that was hesitant. "I guess so..."

"I'll take your word for that, m'kay?" He winked at the child, creeping him out. "I have only two questions left, so hang in there." The man went back to a standing position. He placed his free hand into his pocket while his other hand toyed with the silver gun, twirling it like a leek. "Okay then. Four," the heterochromic man stopped his actions, staring dead into Percy's eyes. "Do you know anyone by the name of... Skipper?"

The child arched his neck backwards, trying to get a better look at the man. His pale grey hair fell against his big garnet eyes. "I don't know. Sorry." He said, shrugging half-heartedly. The boy waited patiently for the last question to be asked. Soon it would be over and they would all go back to their normal lives.

"Oh." _Click_. "You _don't_ know."

Winsor let out a furious yell when a bullet was fired into Percy's left knee. The child's howling echoed throughout the building, making Jose grind his teeth; he shuddered at the sheer pain projected in his voice. Will bit his lower lip; his heart screamed at him to do something, but his brain told him it would compromise his safety. Emotion and reason weren't meant to get along after all.

"You call yourself honest?" The man sneered in contempt. "Shame on you, _Private_."

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

The gun clicked again. "Did I mention that one question can be asked twice if I don't like your answer?" He pointed the weapon at his face and spoke slowly in a dangerous tone. "Do you know _anyone _by the name of _Skipper_?"

The boy sniffled. He knew if he answered no, the price would be his own head. But how was he supposed to answer something he didn't have a clue about? It was a lose-lose situation, and a third option was not available.

"I'm so sorry, but I really don't know."

The man glared coldly. "Not good enough."

Percy shut his eyes, a bit disappointed that the last thing he saw was the mouth of the gun and not his murderer's beautiful eyes.

...

The sound of screeching tires echoed down the road. Rubber burnt against asphalt, creating a cloud of smoke that trailed behind the speeding vehicle. There were no pedestrians, thankfully, or else they would've fallen victim to the van's sudden displacement onto the sidewalk.

Kowalski sighed from his place at the backseat. Skipper could complain all he wanted about his driving, but the captain himself was no better off. The scientist tapped his PDA. "Now make a right turn where you see one."

"Ooh ooh!" Rico bounced in his seat, pointing at a narrow gang at the right side of the road.

Skipper smiled. "Good job, soldier." His grip on the steering wheel tightened a bit as he risked looking back. "Are they still following us?"

Kowalski rolled his eyes. "Nobody is following us. Go right over here."

The bulky van swerved to the left.

"I said go right!"

The team leader threw the wheel even more to the left, making the white vehicle turn halfway around before ramming on the gas. Despite the sudden burst of speed, none of the two men at the back row were particularly surprised. Years of service taught the lieutenant to expect even the most unexpected, and considering Skipper, ground-breaking acceleration was hardly on top of the list. Kowalski suspected that the unusual display of defiance was a subconscious form of payback towards his own insubordination, but to be honest, he couldn't care less. Neither did Rico, who was enjoying the ride, whooping with glee and hands raised up in the air.

Their speedingfest was brought to an end when a warehouse came into view, forcing Skipper to step on the brakes. The van skidded sideways, leaving tire marks on the grey asphalt. The trio of uniform-clad men scrambled out of the van in haste, each whipping out a sidearm. They were stopped in their tracks when an angry yell was heard from the inside the building.

Rico let out a worried yelp; they all recognized the high-pitched tone filled with childlike purity. The amount of anger laced within it was out of place and definitely alien to their ears.

Kowalski shushed him. "Don't shout. You'll ruin our element of surprise."

Skipper frowned when he saw a car-sized hole. _'These hippies can't even buy doors.' _The dark-haired man kicked a chunk of debris to the side, giving his team room to move inside. Clutching a slate grey gun against his chest, he yelled in a made -up deep voice, "Hands up in the air, now!"

Random curses could be heard, most involved a mention of the police. Skipper's clear blue eyes roamed the sight in front of him; gang members scattered around the room in various positions, bits of debris and metal littering the concrete floor, a shitty-looking toilet at the corner of the place. He could guess why Private seemed to want to rush it. The slightly tanned man turned to look at his subordinates, raising an eyebrow. "What are you waiting for, an invitation? Pick a random guy and we're off."

"Wait," Kowalski held up his palm. The scientist lifted his nose up, sniffing like a hound. "I smell blood. And gunpowder." The Polish man looked around the place. "Someone was shot."

Nobody saw him move, but Rico, a white box in his grip, was already kneeling next to an angry Will, a distraught Jose and a dying Percy. With the swiftness of a paramedic, the scarred man miraculously succeeded in extracting the bullet from the child's right eye and stopping the flow of blood. The patchwork was a bit crude, but it got the job done. Crimson emulsion stained his clothes, but all Rico thought of was to prevent the boy in his lap from going into cardiac arrest in a place without proper medical facilities.

Skipper approached the group, standing behind Rico. Will was sitting right across him. The man stared at the boy, who returned his gaze. There was so much emotion in those green orbs: pain, anger, disappointment. Skipper's own sky blue reflected the concern hidden beneath a layer of indifferent professionalism. "Report."

Will gently bit his lower lip, looking up at the ex soldier. "I think we've been compromised."

"Explain."

"A group of three men came and asked about you." The blonde gritted his teeth. "They're the ones who shot Percy."

Skipper lifted an eyebrow, gesturing at the boy in Rico's lap. "His name is Percy?"

The boy's giggles were bitter. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"Hardly." The captain snapped. His expression softened a bit when he saw the boy's shoulders sag. "Take a break, Private. You did good."

Private sighed, pulling down the golden wig he had been wearing, revealing a mussed up mop of dark hair. "Thank you, Skipper."

"Wait a sec," Jose stuttered, looking back and forth between the two males. The dark-skinned teen flailed his arms. "Ya kno' each otha?!"

"That's classified."

The Latina stared in disbelief at the man. "Ya— ah' dun— da _fuck'_s dat mean?!"

Skipper frowned at the obscene word. It was a good idea to install a bleeping filter in Private's earphones after all. "That's for us to know and for you to never find out, civilian."

Jose let out a low growl, glaring at Skipper and Private. All of a sudden he jumped onto his feet and lunged at the two, yelling out furiously. He would have knocked them down if it weren't for the interference of a certain strategist. The last thing the teenage man saw was a cloud of pink mist obscuring his view, and then he was out.

Kowalski stepped from behind the unconscious man, holding a pink ketchup bottle in his hands. "Someone is clearing them out." The pale man pointed at another gang member, who was directing his peers to leave the vicinity through an open back door. "Shall we interfere?"

"No," the team leader denied, eyeing the fallen teenager on the floor. "We can use this one just fine." He directed his gaze towards Rico, who met him with a forlorn expression. "Come on. We need to find a hospital."

...

**East Ham Memorial Hospital, London - 1502 hours**

Private watched with lidded eyes as Percy was wheeled on a portable bed into a surgical room. He had taken off his chartreuse contact lenses and stored them in a small container he found in the van, haphazardly parked at the side of a road. The young boy huffed tiredly, wrapping himself in his own arms.

He suddenly felt another arm slung around his narrow shoulders. It was, unsurprisingly, Rico. Despite the weapons expert's appearance, he was actually really empathetic at heart - one of the most deceivingly emotional people he had ever met. The rugged Latino probably felt his distress and was attempting to comfort him.

Private's smile was thin. "I'm fine, thank you."

Rico didn't look too convinced, but nevertheless he let it slide. After giving the boy two pats at the back, the scarred man took several steps away, giving him the room he needed.

Skipper silently observed the youngest member of the team; eyes half-masts, slouching posture, one hand holding the opposite elbow. The boy's manners were like that of a depressed person. He didn't like it; no-one functions well if they're depressed.

"Heads up, Private. Stop wallowing in misery." His voice took a darker tone. "Tell more about the three men."

Private's position didn't change. If anything, the sixteen-year-old's shoulders sagged even more. "It was going according to plan," he started, his voice small. "I was buying time, waiting for you to arrive. Then _they _came." It was strange, how fear and anger could reside in the same crystal voice. "They asked if there was anyone called 'Private' - I think they're looking for me."

"They're absolutely looking for you," Kowalski interrupted. "You are the only Private here."

Skipper nodded in consent. "The question here is: how did they find out?"

"I don't know," Private's eyes were shut. "Then the one with the gun asked if there was anyone called 'Percy'." The boy gripped his elbow even harder. "It's my fault Percy is hurt. I should've confessed that it was me and not him."

The three older members of the team looked at each other. They all wanted to refute the boy's self-resentment, but it was easier to say than to do. Skipper decided to make the first move. "If you had, we would be even more compromised than we already are. And you wouldn't be here reporting to us." The team captain looked the other way, knowing the boy won't like what he was going to say. "It's a necessary sacrifice."

"Necessary sacrifice?" His tone spoke of anger and disappointment. "He's a _child_! You told us not to involve civilians."

"It was a blown undercover mission. There's bound to be people who get roped in."

The boy scoffed. "Now you're just making excuses."

Skipper didn't push it. Instead he shot Kowalski a look that said 'say something'. The scientist didn't want to do it, but figured out that Private had to be pacified if they wanted to get to work. "Judging from the position of the bullet in the civilian's eye, the perpetrator was aiming for the brain, but missed. You saved him, at the very least."

Private nodded quietly. "I pushed him aside just in time. He was going to shoot me as well, but then you came. They escaped through the back door. I didn't hear any engine revving, so I don't think they came with a car."

"They probably live close enough to the area to go on foot then."

"Or they may have parked their car further down the road." Kowalski suggested.

Private took a deep breath and straightened his posture. "I think I'm feeling better now. Thank you." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry for being so bitter and accusing you of making excuses."

"Insubordination, soldier," Skipper scolded him jokingly. "But I'll let it slide, just this once." His expression took a more serious air. "That being said, how's the civvy doing?"

"They said he will be fine," the dark-haired boy replied uneasily. "But his balance is going to be screwed, now that he's lost an eye."

"And the forget-me-pills?"

Private nodded. He had bought a box of sweets and told the doctors to give it to Percy when he recovers, as a gift. What they didn't know was that the gift was rigged to make the boy forget his encounter with both the team and the three unidentified men. It was the least they could do to him as a consolation.

The team leader turned to his lieutenant. "What of the interogatee?"

Kowalski smirked. "I kept it at the back of the van, restrained and incapacitated."

"...it?"

"It."

He eyed the genius curiously. "Right."

"G' back?"

Skipper shook his head. "No, not yet." He took a quick glance at his wristwatch. "We still have time. We'll finish this today, then continue with what we'll get tomorrow."

Rico tilted his head, not quite understanding his leader's words. Shrugging, he decided he'd find out if he followed through. The four men exited the hospital and went to the van, leaving Percy in the care of professionals. Private spared the building a few more looks before climbing into the vehicle, closing the door behind him. It did not take long before Skipper started the engine and the van zoomed its way down the road.

...

**Maryland Street, London - 1539 hours**

Ann leaned against the cashier machine, letting out a heavy sigh. Now she understood why her employee always looked so bored. Pressing her face down on the table, she prayed to whatever god was listening for something to happen. An amiable customer would be a good start.

The woman's head snapped up when she heard the bell ring. To her surprise, she saw four men in tuxedos entering the shop; the largest of the quad carried a red suitcase with him - he's also the only one she didn't recognize in the group.

"Welcome back, boys," she greeted, the ends of her lips curling up. Noticing the boy behind the three adults, she stood up and approached him. "Private, dear boy!" She promptly gave the boy a hug. "How are you, hmm?"

"Hello, Aunt Ann," the dark-haired teen giggled, trying to squeeze out of the tight cage that was Ann's arms. "I'm good as gold, thank you."

The redhead turned towards the man with the trunk. "I don't think I've seen him before... Why don't you introduce him to me, eh, _Manchot_?"

Skipper laughed. "Ann, this is Rico. He joined us a couple months ago. Rico, this is Angelina." Everyone smiled when the rough man suddenly dropped his load and started to wave at the shop owner like a child. However, they abruptly stopped when a groan came from the suitcase. "Maybe we should work on _that _first."

The woman nodded, gesturing at them to follow her. A few moments later, all five people were inside the padded room hidden behind the long mirror. Once again, Rico dropped the trunk to the floor, not bothering to be gentle. The team leader crouched down next to the red box. With deft hands, he quickly opened the suitcase and tilted it at one side, forcing the content to fall out to the padded floor.

Ann whistled. "He doesn't even look twenty yet. What did he do?"

"That's what we'll find out." Skipper replied as he straightened back up. To everyone's general surprise, the tuxedo-clad man started kicking at the prone body on the floor. "Hey. Wake up."

After a few more kicks and a series of groans (some of which sounded more painful than the others), the dark-skinned teenager on the floor finally regained his consciousness. Blinking the bleariness out, he slowly lifted his eyelids; blue eyes flitting around sluggishly, the Latino tried to move himself to a sitting position only to find himself unable to do so, thanks to the rope that kept his hands bound behind his back. "Whuh... Ah' dun... Da hell is...?"

Private skirted around Kowalski to get in front of the incapacitated teen. "Jose, please. Listen. Stay calm and don't panic. Just do what you will be told to, and you'll be fine."

"What are you doing, Private?" Skipper asked, annoyance present in his voice.

"I have to warn him so nothing happens—"

"Whether anything 'happens' or not is entirely up to its willingness to co-operate," Kowalski suddenly said, making everyone turn their eyes towards him. The scientist leered, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat. "Of course, if it does not wish to co-operate, we can always make it. I didn't bring these along for nothing."

Private's lower lip trembled at the sight of the tangs in the lanky man's hand. "He's a civilian. Can't you go easier on him?"

The genius tutted like a mother would her son. "Now, Private. If you show too much sympathy, you won't succeed in getting satisfying answers from your interogatees, and that won't do." The grin on his face suddenly fell down the devilish slope. "Shall we begin, Skipper?"

"Yeah, yeah," the slightly tanned man dug into his pocket, fishing out a folded piece of paper before handing it to his second-in-command. "Why'd you want it written down anyway? You usually remember everything."

"I'd like to do this slightly differently," was the answer given. "Rico, please move this thing to that chair. Yes, that one. Thank you, Rico."

Jose, still disoriented, didn't say anything as he was literally dragged away across the floor. He felt himself being pulled up, then being put into a sitting position on a metal chair - as if he was some kind of a living marionette whose strings have been broken. The chair rocked backwards as it received its load, nearly falling back if the weapons expert hadn't been quick enough.

"You might want to get some cloth ready, Ann."

"I got some here," the redhead said, tilting her head towards the pile of stained handkerchiefs dumped at a corner of the room. "Use that."

Kowalski scrunched his nose ever so slightly. "I do believe those are... unsanitary."

"Since when do you care?"

The scientist laughed, making his way towards their interogatee. Rico's eyes were trained on his superior's, but his hands were busy retieing the ropes that came off from Jose's wrists. The rugged man patted the knot a few times before setting his distance away from the bound teen. Private started whimpering subconsciously and started backing away to a corner furthest from the chair, whereas Skipper watched the scene unfold before him impassively with Ann quietly standing next to him.

The team leader had seen his lieutenant do his work to the point of not being disturbed by the screams any longer. He questioned Kowalski's way of doing it before, but decided that if Julien did the same, why shouldn't the scientist? Still, he could understand Private's low tolerance to interrogations. He was never a fan of scattered strips of ripe, red flesh. Too messy.

Kowalski briskly stepped up in front of Jose. He used his right hand to pull up the teen's face by his hair, while his left held the pair of tangs and the paper. "Good morning, dear. Would you like breakfast to be served in bed?"

Jose, finally gathering his bearings, merely shot the Polish man a glare. "Go ta hell."

"I know I will. Let's save that for later." A yelp was elicited out of the Latino's mouth when the scientist yanked his hair with the force of some one who was weeding a lawn. "I believe you've heard what our dear Private has told you. Just do what you're told to, and you'll be fine. Good? Good! Roll the cameras, please."

Skipper did a double take. "What cameras?"

"Hello, hello! Welcome again, everyone. This is your ever-so-faithful host Kowalski, in the show we all know and love: the Penguin Parlor! I see we have a mixed reaction from the audience."

Mixed reaction it was, indeed. Skipper slapped his palm against his face, followed by Ann, who added an exasperated sigh. Rico was watching with his eyes wide like a curious little kid, while Private was torn between laughing in humor or crying in horror at the idea of Kowalski running a TV talkshow.

"Our special guest-of-the-day this time will be... I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"Fuck off."

"Vankov! Okay, let's all give Vankov a round of applause. I must say, you don't look Russian at all, but that could just be me. Anyway," the tall man paused to look at the paper in his hand. "I see we have... four. Four questions here! Quite a small number, but I suppose that's fine."

"Y' sick bastard," Jose growled, tugging against his bindings. "Ah hope ya go ta hell an' die!"

The youngest member of the team gulped as he watched their designated interrogator's cheery smile disappear. Despite that smile being fake, he prefered it to what was about to happen. He winced inwardly when he heard the Latino yelp out in pain.

"I think we established that already," Kowalski growled, once again yanking his victim's hair. He held up the tool in his left hand. "I will say this in a way idiots like you can understand: I ask you stuff, you give me answers."

Jose snickered. "Or what, huh? Yer gonna poke me in mah ribs w'dose?"

"Of course not. I'm evil, not nefarious. Tell me, Vankov. How much do you love to speak?"

The teen's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "You wouldn't."

Upon seeing the lanky strategist's lips stretch to the point of nearly splitting his face into two, Private took it as his cue to leave the room. A wise decision for the boy; it didn't take long for screams to start coming out of the secret place. The young boy knew he won't be able to watch Alice in Wonderland for a few days after this - not without getting images of Kowalski in place of the Cheshire Cat.

That thought was terrifying in itself.

...

Skipper looked at his watch, then looked at the interrogation scene. "Is this going to take long? It's fifteen minutes to five, and I'm hungry."

"I'm afraid the show is scheduled to be finished at no less than five o'clock," replied his second- in-command nonchalantly. The genius hummed a merry tune, wiping off the blood from the tool in his hand with a dirty cloth. He was pointedly ignoring the sobs coming from the teen bound to a metal chair positioned right in front of him. "Rest assured, I will complete the task in a few more minutes. After all, we only have one more question to ask - just _one_ last question."

A sudden shriek came out of his mouth. "Naw! P'eas, naw mo'!" The boy flapped his lips open and shut, trying his best to form words without the front half his tongue and whatever was left of his teeth. "Stahb! P'eas!"

Kowalski tsk-ed as he stepped on a fleshy piece of pink... _thing_ on the floor, smiling inwardly at the feeling of that _thing _being squashed under his shoe. "Oh come on, Vankov, be a sport! The audience awaits your answers." The strategist stretched his fingers, forcefully prying open the poor young man's bloodied mouth. "Now that I think about it, soldering your tongue _is_ a good idea. Thanks again, Ann."

"'emme go!"

Ann idly inspected her painted nails. "Your own fault for telling him what he didn't want to hear kid," the woman blurted. "He wants information on a girl gang, not your drug dealings."

"P'eas, stahb!"

"That was, admittedly, a good bonus." Kowalski murmured. "I'll include that bit in the report."

Meanwhile, the team leader had turned to Rico. The man silently admired the weapons expert's unfaltering persistence in watching Kowalski's work. Both he and Private had been disgusted when they first saw the scene, but Rico merely watched with passive interest - standing there in an unmoving, unchanging position, eyes fully trained on what was going on before them. The ex-soldier knew that took guts; justified, in that Rico's guts is a literal bottomless pit.

Jose let out a pathetic sob. "Ahwel tell ya... Tell ya ev'ithin'!" He inhaled sharply. "D' 'ornats. Ya pe'puhl wan' d' 'ornats, raht?"

Kowalski tapped his chin, showing his interest. "The Hornets, you say? Alright, carry on." True to the scientist's words, it took a few minutes until the last question was answered, therefore ending the session. The Polish man turned back to the other occupants of the room, proclaiming with a wide smile, "And that concludes our talk show today. See you again next time in Penguin Parlor! Your host, Kowalski, signing out."

Skipper shook his head. "We could've done this faster, but you just _had _to do this."

"The prospect was tempting."

"Can you guys keep him there? I wanna get the camera," Ann said, walking to the same corner where stained cloth are piled up. She returned with a pink polaroid and quickly crouched down in front of Jose. "Hey, kid, say cheese!"

Jose didn't really know what happened (pain is very distracting after all), but he remembered a flash of bright light before falling unconscious. It was a small mercy for him, considering what he would've been subjected to if he had stayed awake. He had never been a religious person, but if he made a mental note to go to church if he survived the horrifying encounter. It was the least he could do.

Ann's smile was similar to that of a cat. The red haired lady patiently waited for the photo to be processed by the camera. She pulled the photo from under the polaroid, humming as she held it up to her eye. "And that's another one to add to the collection," she chortled happily, walking to the wall behind the chair. Taking out a small pin from her pocket, she attached the photo on the padded wall, then took a few steps back. "It could be just me, or is the wall getting a bit too crowded?" The redhead wondered as her eyes travelled over the multitude of gory pictures on the wall.

Kowalski laughed. "You chose to keep trophies. You know there will be a large amount of them, especially if you work in tandem with us."

"You think I need a new wall?"

"No," the strategist offhandedly waved. "Settle for pinning it down somewhere else - say, your bedside mirror."

"Hmm..."

Skipper took another look at his watch. "I could really use some food right now."

Kowalski rolled his eyes. "Oh, alright. Come on, Rico. Make a use of yourself and help us carry that thing out, would you?"

The rugged man seemed to snap out of his own thoughts as a shudder ran through his body. He muttered something intelligible before making his way to Jose. He untied the restraints, took the teen into his arms and dropped him into the trunk, once again locking him in.

Ann placed her hands on her hips. "Do you plan on dropping him off somewhere, or obliterating the evidence entirely?"

"The latter would be most satisfying," Kowalski replied, smirking when he saw Skipper glare at him disapprovingly. "However, due to a certain someone's moral restraints, the former choice will suffice."

"What about potential leaking?"

"Psychological trauma. He won't remember nor tell anyone about this. If that doesn't take care of it, the amnesia mist should."

"You clever bastard."

"I take it that was a compliment."

The four adults, later followed by a nervous boy who had been waiting for them by the corridor, made their way to the store entrance. Skipper allowed a smile to grace his face. " Thanks a lot for your help, Ann."

"My pleasure," the woman gave a mock bow. "I guess I'll be seeing you around more?"

"Maybe. Now I'm just hungry," the team leader admitted, climbing into the van with the other three members of the team behind him.

Soon, the van had disappeared down the street, leaving Ann staring blankly at the trail of dust it left. She idly twirled her scarlet hair, her green eyes twinkling mischievously.

"On a bedside mirror, eh?" The woman cackled, re-entering the store. "Funny. I don't even have a bedside mirror."

...

**A/N: **Everything here is mostly a product of me raging against my parents. I apologize if there are things that barely make sense. By the way, I'm collecting ideas for scenes, so I'm thinking: maybe you can help? If there's any particular event you'd like to see happening, just send me a PM, or use that white button down there. No, I'm not implying anything. Peace out.

_LoverOfThings_: I'm a bit worried; you sound as if I insulted you. I'm sorry if I came off as being critical; I meant to say that in a teasing way. I'll answer your questions via PM. Typing them out here will take up too much space.

_mary_: Really? How nice. Are you more Marlene than Arlene, or is it the other way around?

...

_Reviews feed Mort.  
These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.  
It would be wise of you to follow their noble action._


	10. Honeytrap

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter Nine  
**Honeytrap

**Lister Hall, London - 1847 hours**

Kowalski carefully scrutinized the paper in his hand. He could hear Skipper talking to Rico in the living room. The scientist assumed it had to do with Rico's trunk, judging from the way it was laid out between the two comrades. Private was in the bedroom, doing whatever children his age do at this time of the day. The dark-haired boy had gone back to being the chipper optimist they all knew. It was a relief to their team leader and their weapons expert.

Dinner was lovely, as usual. Their medic-slash- weapons-expert's choice of menu today was all Italian. The genius found himself consuming more fettuccine carbonara than he had intended to. Private ate the most, Skipper ate the least, Rico devoured whatever is left after everyone was done, as per usual.

Boring. Monotone. Unstimulating.

But of course, with the recent events they were presented with, their current situation wouldn't stay uneventful much longer. He predicted at least another encounter with the unidentified trio Private mentioned.

The man read and re-read the walls of text that covered the entirety of the paper. The previous interogatee had told them quite the significant amount of information, a majority of which are bits regarding the recent murder case involving street gangs.

_'So, now do we not only have to keep an eye on these rats, we need to be on the lookout for an angry bunch of hornets,' _he mused, rubbing his chin. _'What is it with gangs and animal motifs? Is it some kind of trend these days?'_

The Polish man soon tuned out all the noises of his surroundings, concentrating only on the bits of intel in his grasp.

Their interogatee -'_Jose? Vankov?'_ he didn't give a damn, really- disclosed a ton of incriminating things about the Forest Gate Rats. Apparently, they had been selling drugs to various people since the last three years, and had made good sums of money from that business. Their leader -whom all the members call 'King'- was the one who instructed them to distribute their product. Where he had acquired them from, none of the members knew. The King himself was missing at the day the Penguins busted their base. The interogatee said he probably went for a walk, but Kowalski suspected ulterior motives. Gang leaders wouldn't leave their gang unsupervised without leaving a second-in-command in charge and according to the interogatee, he had never appointed anyone with that status.

Apart from that, the Rats had a rival gang who called themselves the Homerton Hornets, or just Hornets, for short. Apparently it was an all-girl gang too; he admitted that he had to admire the strength of female emancipation. The death of Mike Tyler was hardly the climax of the battle between the two gangs, as murders with the exact same motif have happened before. Unsurprisingly, the victims always came from the Rats' side.

_'They obviously didn't consult Sun Tzu before heading to war,' _the strategist snickered at the thought. _'Ah, the wonders of the Worf effect.'_

According to the interogatee, the conflict in E16 originally started because the Rats accidentally sold drugs to one of the Hornets at none other than Star Lane Park. One day, the Hornet over- dosed and died. When her fellow gang member found out about the Rats, they were furious and started exterminating any Rats they see in E16. Eventually, the Hornets started reaching out to Forest Gate for the sake of finding the Rats. All Rats who were attacked had their stock of drug (or 'load', as they called it) taken from them by the Hornets. What the girls did with the drugs, nobody knew but the Hornets themselves.

Despite the fair motives, Kowalski couldn't help suspect another reason to the Hornets' unusual aggression. It's not a strange thing for rivaling gangs to be violent to each other, but repeated murders, especially after an incident from half a year ago, seemed a tad extreme.

Or it could just be him overanalyzing things.

_'Never hurt me before.'_

"Anything good?"

The scientist pivoted his head around, looking up to his leader. "A few." Behind the man, he could see Rico being occupied by Miss Perky.

Skipper pulled out the chair next to his second- in-command and sat down. "Shoot."

"I have highlighted all important points. See for yourself," Kowalski said, pushing his papers to Skipper. "The green ones, not red. Red is for grammatical mistakes."

"You proofread your own notes?" The team leader mused, skimming the text.

Kowalski shrugged. "Habit."

Skipper's eyes moved up and down the papers, taking in the information. "What do you suggest we do about this?"

"Our best possible course of action would be to investigate the Hornets."

"How do we do that?"

The strategist rubbed his nose. "Fortunately for us, our last interogatee happens to be involved with one of the Hornets."

"...really?"

"She is one of their more amiable members, he said," the Polish continued, ignoring Skipper's comment. "I infer that's the front she puts up in front of him, if only to gain his trust. Funny how he pleaded me not to do anything to her, right after he told me this bit."

"Where can we find her?"

"She works at Westfield Shopping Centre as an employee of Louis Vuitton. I have checked the employees' schedule for that branch; she has a shift today. She is still there, actually, and will be there until 2000 hours today."

"And you still haven't told me her name."

Kowalski scratched his chin. "Now that you've mentioned it, I never did, did I?"

...

The two superior members of the Penguins entered the medium-size room. The whole team was now assembled in the bedroom. Rico had finished showering and was changing into a red tee and loose white pants. Private was lounging on the bed, dressed in an amber sleepshirt. He looked ready to fall asleep anytime if it weren't for the novel he was reading.

Skipper clapped twice. "Gather round, men. We are going out."

Private looked up from his book. "Where to?"

"The mall."

A gleeful chortle came out of Rico's mouth. He had heard of the 'mall' before, though he never actually visited one. Julien told him it was a big place full of things you can take by offering the person in charge a special card, which they will return to you anyway. The big man assumed it was some sort of free-for-all paradise.

The youngest member of the team wore a smile on his face. "How nice! But why so sudden?"

"Because our intentions are not leisurely," the team strategist piped up from behind Skipper. "Our objective is to search for a certain damsel who's of significant value to the progress of our mission."

"Da'zle?"

Skipper nodded. "Yes, Rico. Damsel."

...

**Westfield Shopping Centre, London - 1902 hours**

The mall was rather sparse that day, which was somewhat unusual. Pairs of feet treaded across the sterling floor as their path intertwined with each others'. Four men dressed in casual wear were walking side-by-side, obstructing a part of the walkway, much to the general annoyance of the people who were behind them. Not that the quad noticed as they were too preoccupied with the current task in their hands.

The leader of the group ran his gloved fingers against his raven hair, noting that it had grown past the base of his neck. Skipper silently told himself to cut the excess length off later as he pulled the hem of his tight black tee down. The mall was air-conditioned, yet the military man found himself sweating more than he should be, suspecting it had something to do with the anxiety he secretly felt in the pit of his guts. His cargo pants were uncomfortable against his hips; the parachute fabric didn't facilitate much ventilation. He could've worn his tuxedo pants, but the combination was so ridiculous, he didn't even bother trying it out. Most embarassingly, the pants he currently wore weren't his, but his second-in-command's. They would've been too long for him to wear if it weren't for the lucky fact that the bottom half was detachable. In his mind, he thanked whoever made zippers.

Kowalski coughed lightly. "I understand you are impatient to take action, but is it necessary to do so at this time of the day?"

"I think it's appropriate," Private smiled, hands tucked into the pocket of his dark jeans. "Most people come here in the evening, don't they?"

"The time when work is over and play begins." Skipper piped in, discreetly eyeing an attractive navy canvas jacket displayed behind a window. "But work doesn't stop for us. Keep an eye out for any L and V you can see."

Despite his general dislike of the situation, the Polish remained silent, rolling and unrolling the long sleeves of his pine green shirt, just for the sake of not getting bored. His lapis lazuli eyes scanned the crowd, trying to look for something -_anything_- interesting. Eventually he settled his hands in the big pockets of his olive pants, face cast down to stare at polished marble.

There was a reason he didn't go out often. Kowalski disliked being out in public, mostly because of the lack of intelligence displayed by occasional morons he had the misfortune to witness while taking an innocent stroll. Once, he had seen a little boy, possibly of age four, walk out into the road to catch a runaway ball. Then he got hit by a speeding truck. The genius remembered watching the scene impassively from an overhead bridge, the ruckus made by passersby lost to his ears. He scoffed at both the child and the truck driver - the former for foolishly charging into a stupidly risky situation without any preparation and the latter for getting himself into a sticky spot without an available backdoor. The driver even had the galls to park the vehicle and get down to the streets. He could've driven away instead. The crowd was too transfixed on the dead child to bother pelting the truck with stones anyway. The whole incident was like poison to his mind - it reeked of sheer stupidity.

Then again, it wasn't as if he was spared from foolish incidents in CPZ. Most of his headache stemmed from Julien's lack of a functional mind and the stupid actions of miscellanous people. Antonio was among the worst offenders, really. But the scientist tolerated the Spaniard, if only because of their mutual relationship.

"You lived here before, didn't you Private? You should know where the nearest store is."

The boy laughed, sapphire eyes shimmering with humor. "I'm afraid not, Skippah. Uncle Nigel and I lived further west, at Devon."

"Did you go to school here?"

"I was homeschooled by Uncle Nigel. Well, until he had me join you."

Skipper narrowed his eyes. "Why'd you go to New York instead of entering the London branch?"

The small-statured boy giggled. "Oh, no reason."

Rico kept up a smile as he listened along to the conversation. It was nice for the team to have a casual trip to the mall. They never did it before actually. The weapons expert rubbed his belly, feeling the soft cotton fabric of his shirt against his hand. The red tee was an old welcoming gift given to him by Skipper when the Latin man was officially announced as a member of Team Penguin. It even had nice, large block letters in front that spelled 'kaboom' in white all-caps. It was one of his favorite things aside from Miss Perky that he will hold on to forever. Speaking of Miss Perky, the spiky-haired man wondered how she was doing, all alone in the flat. Rico's lips formed a downwards curve as he recalled how Skipper had forbade him from bringing his beloved doll on recon. He was sad, but if it was Skipper's orders, he wiould listen. Besides, he had left her a pack of cards she could play with while they were gone. Hopefully he could make up for his absence when they got back.

"Ah, there it is." The four men stopped at their leader's voice. Looking up, they could see a big white signboard with ornate golden letters that spelled 'Luis Vuitton'. Three white mannequins stood behind a layer of glass, each set in poses distinct from each other and garbed in different clothes and accessories. Private ran his bright blue eyes down one of the three static dolls. He thought the design was actually quite nice.

Skipper shifted his eyes between his three subordinates. "Who wants to do the honors?"

"It would be more practical to just enter."

"Negative, Kowalski. We need a cannon fodder - someone expendable who can take the shame of being seen on a shopping trip. Private?"

The teenager silently questioned Skipper's sentiments about shopping. He guessed it had something to do with the adult man's rather outdated view of manliness. That being said, Private didn't mind going shopping. In fact, he loved the idea of walking past aisles and racks of beautiful clothes. The child strolled into the shop with his head held high, promising himself that one day he would show Skipper shopping isn't reserved for females.

The three older men followed the younger into the store. They noted how lavishly decorated it was, despite not being a very large place. Rico grinned stupidly when he saw a rose-pink dress highly similar to the one Miss Perky wore, barr the abundant amount of sequines. He thought it would be funny if he dressed up as her and vice versa later October.

Kowalski's eyes twitched. "Well. Here we are." His tone showed that he was unamused. "What shall we do? Go down every aisle, search every rack until we find the girl?"

"Hell no. That'll take us all day."

_'You don't say.'_ "What do you suggest, then?"

Skipper shot the scientist a funny look. "You're the options guy. You think of something."

Kowalski held an exasperated sigh, adjusting his spectacles. He really needed a break from their awfully teeth-clenched teamwork._ 'Focus, Kowalski. Think of Jiggles. Poor Jiggles, left back in that cold lab. He must be so lonely— stop! Think of something else. The mission. Yes. Oslo. The next target—'_

"S'cuse me."

Rico was the first to whip around at the source of the voice, followed quickly by the rest of the team. Behind them stood a young lady who wore a light uniform similar to that of the other employees, suggesting that she shared the job. Standing with her head bowed, she looked up at them sullenly. "Do you need help?"

Skipper was a bit taken aback at the deadened tone of the question, as well as the lady's look in general. Her dull blonde hair was rolled up in a little bun, some strands haphazardly sticking out or strewn across her face. Her green eyes looked sunken and there were hints of redness at the edges of her sclera. The commander had seen this kind of look before. In fact, he knew it so well, there was a particular one etched into his memory - one he saw in a cracked mirror.

Private was about to answer her when all of a sudden, Kowalski pushed him aside and walked towards her. Before anyone could say anything, the strategist grabbed both sides of her cheeks with his left hand, roughly lifting the girl's pear- shaped face up. The cries of his colleagues fell upon his deaf ears as he boldly scrutinized the blonde lady's tanned visage. Pools of dim green stared back at his lapis lazuli. They were filled to the brim with fear. Not that he cared. After what seemed to be a very long time, Kowalski's gaze shifted to her chest, then back at her face. The pale man opened his mouth, speaking in a low, careful tone. "Celia Tyler?"

She subconsciously tried to flinch, but the lady found herself unable to thanks to the iron grip the man had on her jaws. Celia looked up, her gaze hard. "...that's me."

"That's you." The scientist replied coldly. "And you're coming with us."

Skipper crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Are you sure this is the target?"

"If the name tag doesn't indicate enough..."

The lady's eyes darted back and forth between the two men. "Yer takin' me away, aren'tcha?"

"You seem to know something, woman."

Skipper's sky blue eyes met the blonde's green. "If yer who I think you are, yea." She paused to look around. "We gotta talk somewhere else. I can show ya a good place. C'mon."

...

**The Princess Alexandra, London - 2021 hours**

The four men and one woman sat in silence in a dimly lit bar, far from where they came from. A server considered approaching them before he changed his mind. The guy with the scar across his mouth looked like trouble, and they've had one too many bar fights this week. Damaged property is one hell of a bitch to replace.

Skipper looked around the place. It wasn't very impressive, but not so shoddy either. A suitable place for casual late-night outings. He silently wondered if taking the lady -Celia?- here was a good thing. Although it was her suggestion, it's rude to just drag someone from their job.

Private shifted in his seat, trying not to look uncomfortable. Last time they went to a bar was last December, and he didn't want another hangover. He told himself never to celebrate Julianuary, or anything on that matter, in a bar. It probably wouldn't end well for him. "Are you sure Miss Tyler is the one, King?"

The scientist pushed his spectacles up. "Most certainly." He spoke, discreetly eyeing the dark yellow, beehive-patterned belt that hugged the employee's narrow waist.

Rico was quiet, as usual. His tourmaline-tosca eyes were fixed on the rectangular wood table. He seemed very focused, but nobody could see just what he was focusing on. The half-Latino played with a marble ashtray, rolling it between his palms, occassionally spinning it on the tip of a finger. The weapons expert silently pondered about the noticeably wide crack that ran down the middle of the ashtray. It looked as if it had been split apart, then crudely patched up again. But it had nothing to do with him, so he kept on playing with the petite piece of furniture.

Rico's silence was mirrored by the tan blonde sitting at the innermost corner of their table, head cast down with her hands clasped on her knees. Her mannerisms suggested as if she was a convict lined up on a death sentence row. Considering the current circumstances she was in, however, that might as well be the case.

Kowalski let out a long breath, leaning back against the ripe red cushion. "Almond-shaped eyes, green irises, attached earlobes, single lid, hazel diamond freckles. These traits resemble the victim of yesterday's murder." Soul-piercing lapis lazuli orbs stared into glassy emerald green. "Celia Tyler, older sibling of Mike Tyler. Am I correct?"

The blonde flinched, knowing the question was directed at her. "I guess there ain't no point in tryin' to hide it from you Rats."

A childlike giggle suddenly bubbled through the scientist's lips. "Those bratty youngsters? Oh, no. We're not that brash, and definitely more intelligent."

"Wait, ya ain't from the Rats?" The blonde's posture suggested she wanted to get out of the seat, but told herself not to do so. "But... who the hell are ya...?"

As sudden as he started laughing, the dark-haired man's expression switched to what people nowadays would dub 'shit just got real'. "Look, woman. We don't care about those flimsy Rats. We don't care what happened between you and what's-his-name. All we would like to do is ask you questions. If we like what you say, you may go. If we don't, we'll ask again until we like what you say. Did I make myself clear?"

The girl hesitated, but nodded in resignation.

Skipper shot his second-in-command a look that said 'hurry up'. The strategist huffed, shooting back a disapproving look at his impatience. The latter of the two cleared his throat, placing his hands on the oak table and clasping his palms together. "Alright. First question: which street gang does that mark on your leg belong to?"

Celia's eyes widened. "How'd 'cha know—"

"You have been pulling your skirt down since you sat. I see tendrils of black and gold ink on the skin above your left knee. Now please answer the question."

Her reply wasn't immediate. "This is the mark of the Hornet." The blonde girl tentatively lifted up a portion of her black pencil skirt so to let the four men see what she had meant. True to Kowalski's words, there was an ornate black-and-gold cross tattooed to the skin right above her left knee. "I'm a Gyne. I only got one cross, but the Drones' got two, and Queen's got three." She explained, seeming almost enthusiastic as she spoke.

"I'm guessing the Queen holds the highest position."

"Yep."

"What is her name?"

The woman shook her head hard, signalling her unwillingness to answer. Unfortunately for her, the man questioning her was unfazed.

"Miss Tyler, what is her name?"

"I can't tell ya," she blurted out. "I don't know - nobody knows. Not even the Drones. It's—"

"_Enough_." Kowalski interrupted, tone betraying irritation. "Do you meet often?"

Celia exhaled harshly. "Not often tho'." It was murmured out, but clearly heard.

"Where and when?"

"Around here, usually. But that d'pends on Queen. If she wanna do it somewhere else, we do it." The blonde drew in a deep breath before suddenly hitching in the middle. She looked around the bar, head spinning frantically. "This ain't good." Her tone was close to panicking. "I gotta get outta here."

The scientist stared. "We are hardly done."

"I have to!" Celia pleaded, her eyes wide. "_You_ have to. I told'cha enough already, didn't I?"

Kowalski rapped his fingers against the table. "Say, Miss Tyler, do you enjoy shopping?"

That was when Skipper decided to take things into his own hands. "I think we're good to go." He gave a firm glare at his second-in-command, whom he knew was about to protest. "We got what we want already, _didn't we_."

It was not a question.

The scientist scowled inwardly. "Certainly, sir."

The five people stood up, immediately going to the entrance. After they walked out of the bar, Private turned to look at Celia. Flashing the girl a comforting smile, the dark-haired boy said, "I am sorry for the loss of your brother. I pray the Father accepts him on His side."

Celia was stunned. She stammered stupidly for a few moments before her shoulders slumped tiredly. "I..." The blonde sighed. "...thank you." As the four men walked away, she, too, went to another street. She paused momentarily before turning back. "Wait!"

The quad abruptly stopped, returning her gaze in their own individual ways.

"Y'all ain't cops, are ya?"

"And what makes you think so, woman?"

Celia exhaled sharply, gathering herself. "A cop would drag me to a station already. I ain't that stupid, I know that much." Her emerald green eyes fixed on the four men in front of her, she continued, "If you people ain't cops, what are ya?"

Skipper simply smirked at the classic question, as did the rest of the team. "That, civilian," he spoke. "Is for us to know and for you to never find out." The man beckoned at the other three to move on. Soon, the four had gone down the road, disappearing into the dark evening.

This left Celia in the middle of the road, alone and, frankly, confused. As if breaking out of the trance, she shook her head roughly. The blonde once again looked around warily before going down the road in search for transportation. She had to get out of there. She had to.

From the angular shadows cast by the bar, two unidentified figures watched the exchange with an entirely stoic manner.

...

**A/N:** My brain isn't working well. My writing skills have declined during the past few days and describing seem to be such a chore now. Maybe I need a break?

_mary_: Ah, so you're the cheerful optimist. Alas, poor Private. Perhaps it's already in his job description to be the odd one out... or should I say, the _nice _one out.

_LoverOfThings_: No, you were the only one who guessed. You won the not-a-contest-you-just-made-up contest. Congratulations. Chilly is delicious. Like brain ice cream. Interaction with Antonio's team? Okay. It's Badger though, not Otter - not yet. Ethics and moral conversation coming right up. Rico and Miss Perky is abundant enough in the past chapters, I think. Kowalski in the showers, hmm? Are you trying to imply something, or is that the little fangirl in the back of my head speaking?

_Batmanskipper_: Your reasoning is near correct. I wouldn't say he's used to worse, but let's just go with that. The mission itself isn't much of an importance, really. It's the reason behind that mission that poses significance. No, Phil is not a double agent. May I ask how you got that idea? Because I'm pretty sure I didn't say anything that alludes to that particular notion. Just wondering.

...

_Reviews feed Mort.  
These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.  
It would be wise of you to follow their noble action._


	11. Royal Jelly

_Disclaimer_  
_Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story._

_..._

**Chapter Ten  
**Royal Jelly

**Lister Hall, London – 2012 hours**

The team's strategist was the first one to enter the flat. In short strides, the curly-haired genius made his way to the dining table. Wordlessly he pulled out a chair, sat on it and flipped open the laptop he had left on the table. Skipper was the second to enter, followed by Private. Rico then closed the door behind them; the muscular man plopped down on the sofa, almost sitting on his precious Miss Perky. Taking the petite doll into his hands, the weapons expert nudged her head with his nose, taking the scent of her hair in. To him, the smell of nylon threads was comparable to lavender oil - calm and relaxing. Just what he needed after a mission. Whereas the youngest member of the team went straight to bed, their leader opted to keep his lieutenant company.

The whirr of machines soothed his psyche and calmed his soul; a melody he was familiar with. Technology offers so much more than any kind of therapist you can find in the face of a corrupt world; such were the scientist's thoughts. He is soon broken off his reverie by a light tap on his back. Kowalski looked across his shoulder, his lapis lazuli eyes meeting his captain's sky blue. "What?"

Skipper cocked his eyebrow. "What what?"

"Why did you pat my back?"

He laughed. "Oh, so now I can't pat my second- in-command in the back? Did you get some kind of direct contact transmitted disease?"

Kowalski scowled. "How hilarious." The genius dropped his entire weight on the table, leaning against the oaken furniture. "Is your presence here simply to disturb me?"

"You're angry."

"Preposterous. Why would I be angry?"

"You're mad at me for stopping you from going too far with Miss Tyler," Skipper spoke, leaning casually against the scientist's chair. "You were going to take her to Ann, weren't you?"

Kowalski pushed his glasses. "She wasn't being cooperative enough to my desire."

The team leader sighed, shaking his head in an unusually sagely manner. "You need to try to be unselfish sometimes."

The Polish man chuckled bitterly. "Selflessness is but an exploitable paragon of human fatality. History has proven this: why is it that all honest and generally kind people die earlier? It is cold, hard math; meant to be exploited for a personal advantage. By being selfish, I postpone the due date of my inevitable death." He stared into the bright laptop screen through the thick lenses of his glasses; the lucent glare hardly hindered his sight, as he was quite used to seeing the same, bright screen in the dark of the night. "Besides, a large portion my selfish deeds are in the best interests of both me and the active mission. All in all, it's hardly an undesirable exchange."

The scientist bit his lip, waiting for the foolishly idealistic reply that he was sure the other adult will throw at him. After a few moments of utter silence, however, he realized that there was no response from his captain. Kowalski jumped in his seat when the lid of his laptop was suddenly slammed shut by a hand that absolutely wasn't his. He looked up to find Skipper's face in the distance of exactly 6.963 centimetres from his. "...what are you doing?"

The exact moment after he said that, Skipper's eyelids narrowed dramatically. "Take it off."

"Pardon?"

"Your glasses. Take them off."

Kowalski blanched. "You must be joking."

To his surprise, the other man outstretched his hand towards the sides of his face. Before the strategist could do anything about it, Skipper's nimble fingers had hooked themselves onto the obsidian frame of his glasses. The team captain quickly pulled them to himself, smiling smugly as he did so. "Not so hard, was it?"

"Explain yourself."

"I've always wanted to do that."

"It was unecessary."

"It's mandatory," Skipper retaliated, setting the sight aid on the tabletop just outside the range of Kowalski's grasp. "For now, at least."

The Polish man growled. "I swear it, Skipper, if this is one of your pointless attempts at—"

"Therapy?" The ex-soldier laughed. "No, I gave up on that. I've got nothing on jibber-jabber."

"It's _not_ jibber-jabber."

"It's science. Still jibber-jibber."

"Can we just talk about the mission?"

Skipper shrugged. "Overpreparing takes all the fun out of the action, you know."

Kowalski reluctantly let a smirk creep out onto his face. "That statement will come to bite you in the back." The pale man then reached for his glasses, but was stopped in his tracks when his wrist was grabbed by the man in front of him.

"Don't," he spoke. "Keep it off."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you like me better without my glasses."

"I do."

Kowalski shifted to lean against the back of the chair instead, letting his hands fall into his lap. "If you insist. Now, the mission. We now know that the Rats sell drugs, and some of them had been taken by the Hornets, am I correct?"

"Bullseye."

The scientist fished into his pockets, pulling out a fairly crumpled piece of paper. "According to our previous interogatee, the Hornets are avid activists. There was this one time when half of their members set up a campaign against drugs and free sex. Funny, when you remember they are a gang." His lapis lazuli eyes skimmed the paper. "Their leader never showed up at any of the rallies and campaigns, but is said to always give her underlings her full support."

Skipper rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "What do you think the Hornets did to those drugs?"

"If I have to hazard a guess, I'd say they either got rid of them or sold them to someone else."

"Can we find out?"

"If they sold them, yes. I can pull up a record of drug traffic in these areas. Unless the purchase was done from hand to hand, we should be able to find purchase evidence as well."

"And if they got rid of them?"

"There are several ways to eradicate drugs, but most inevitably produce chemical traces. I hope they did not do this, considering we do not have the necessary equipment to detect any."

"I told you to bring your stuff."

"I brought everything in the list. That's all. I see no good in overloading the helicopter."

"Good point. I take it you have a Plan C?"

"We find another way to track them down."

The team leader put his hands behind his back, folding them together. "If I remember correctly, this isn't the first murder they did."

Kowalski shook his head. "No, it's not." The tall man suddenly grinned, tilting his head upwards. "Oh, I _see._ How rare of you to actually concoct a fully functional plan."

Skipper returned the grin. "Hey, I wasn't made captain for nothing." He had absolutely _no_ idea what Kowalski was talking about but if it meant raising the genius' opinion of him, he likes it.

The strategist turned his head to look at the big green trunk laid against the living room wall. "I will require several things."

"What do you need?"

"A map of London - regular, publicly acquired maps will do. It would be extremely lovely if it has insets on E7 and E9 though. Then I need specific information regarding Celia Tyler. I'm afraid we must rely on Maurice's network yet again."

Skipper looked at the door of the bedroom. "I'll go put him on the line."

"Much appreciated, thank you."

Wordlessly, the team leader walked away in a brisk pace. His second-in-command spared few seconds staring at his retreating back before returning his attention to the laptop. "Alright, let's see what we can find."

...

When he entered the bedroom, the captain was greeted by the sight of Private curling up on his bed with a Lunacorn in his arms. Skipper made his way towards the boy. "Private."

"Yes, sir?"

"Still haven't gotten used to it, huh?"

The dark-haired boy sighed. "I don't understand how he could do such things without being sick. Can you do it without being sick, Skipper?"

The ex-soldier shook his head before whipping it around. "Where's Rico?"

"In the shower. With Miss Perky."

Skipper approached the boy, sitting at the edge of the bed. The man drew a breath. "You know there's a reason we're in CPZ."

Private sunk deeper into the matress. "Skipper, have you ever wondered what happens to those people? The ones we chase down all the time?"

"What happens to them?"

"What happens to their family? The people they love? Do they wonder why they suddenly got off the face of the world? Do they try searching for their lost family member? Do they blame us for what we did?" The boy exhaled tiredly. "I mean, everything we did was for the good of everyone else, I know that. But is it worth it?"

The man stared into his subordinate's sapphire blue orbs. "Good is always worth it all, Private." He reached out to cup the boy's face. "What we do now is also for the kids out there. They have no idea what you're being put through, and that's a good—" Skipper stopped abruptly, realizing what he was about to say. He quickly retracted his hand, letting it hang in the air. "I mean..."

Laughter broke out of the boy's mouth. "A good thing, yes?" The dark-haired child smiled at his leader. "Better one than a million others."

Skipper coughed. "Well, there's Mort, so it's not exactly 'one', per se... but whatever." Rising from the bed, he proceeded to straighten himself up. "Anyway, I need the comm. Do you mind if I use yours?"

"Not at all," Private replied. He slipped his left hand under his pillow, pulling out a small, black phone. "I bet Kowalski asked you to get Maurice on the line."

The team captain grinned as he took the phone from his subordinate. "Ten bucks." Without any other word, Skipper turned his back to the boy. In a few moments, he had disappeared behind the doorway, leaving Private alone to think.

...

The lieutenant was alerted to his commander's presence by the small beeping sounds made as the tuxedo-clad man pressed the buttons on the communication device. A second was spared to look at the man before his attention returned to his laptop. On the monitor were two windows: a document with a list of locations and a browser with several tabs, all displaying news sites. The Polish man didn't respond to the team captain's approaches until the latter decided to childishly wave the phone in front of the former's face. In a mild show of annoyance, Kowalski sighed and turned towards his leader. "Yes, Skipper?"

"I got Maurice on the line."

"I've noticed," the dark-haired man muttered as he took the phone from the younger's hand. He took a glance at the screen; that was Maurice's number, alright. "Took you long enough."

Skipper shrugged. "I had a talk with Private."

Kowalski groaned, rolling his eyes. "About what extremely important matters? How the dwarves are slowly taking over Elfland by infiltrating the elfs' ranks with elfen-dwarf-hybrid spies?"

"Your imagination is very healthy but no. It was just a sort of counseling—"

"You said you gave up on therapy."

"—about the Apaloosa kangaroos in Estonia. The poor boy is concerned about their supposedly inhumane breeding method and their diet of braised platypi."

Kowalski twitched. "What."

Skipper laughed. "Really, it's not an interesting subject. Not to you." He pulled out a chair next to the Polish man and took a seat. "So, you got anything good?"

"I listed out all the possible murders committed by the Hornets within the last two years. Victim perimeter: males between 10 to 20 living at E7. These are the ones known to public. We need a complete list of all relevant murders ever to be documented, be it from LPD or M16."

"That's what Maurice is for." The team captain pointed out, as-a-matter-of-factly.

Kowalski nodded. "Now, if only he would check his—" As if on cue, the waiting beep fizzled out, replaced by an angry-sounding voice. "Speak of the devil, indeed. Maurice?"

_"This better be important, man. I did not just put Mort's session on hold for nothing."_

"I need you to find someone for me," the genius said, ignoring his conversation partner's words. "Celia Tyler, relative of Mike Tyler. Also, I need a list of all documented murders within the last two years. The victims are males between 10 to 20 living at area E7. ETA?"

_"You..." _A sigh from the other side. _"I won't ask. That's a lot of intel you're asking, so I'm gonna need a lot of time. Sixty minutes tops."_

"Good enough. Thank you." The strategist hung up, placing the phone on the tabletop. "Well, we can only wait," he spoke, addressing Skipper. "I estimate it'll take him fifty four minutes. I don't suppose some food is in order?"

Skipper's head snapped up. "Oh, yeah. I got too hooked up in this, I forgot I'm hungry," the man chuckled as he got up from his seat. "I'm going to tell Rico to make dinner. You coming?"

"I'll join you in a moment," Kowalksi answered, his eyes still trained upon the screen. "There is something I'd like to check up on."

The team leader raised an eyebrow. "Fine. I'm not going to call you when it's ready though."

Kowalski smirked. "Oh, you won't need to."

...

Eyes narrowed to the point of being comical, he leered at the man seated across him. Skipper's mind could not come up with an explanation to the genius' impeccable timing. The curly-haired man showed up at the doorway the _second _Rico announced that dinner was ready. Justified that it probably had something to do with him being a genius and all, but still. It's creepy.

Skipper took a quick glance at the clock on the wall. It was well past nine and they were nearly done eating dinner - just in time to go to bed at ten sharp. The ex-soldier smiled. He liked being punctual. With a fork in his hand, he stabbed at a cut of grilled beef on his plate before shoving it into his mouth. The team captain wondered if he could ask his weapons expert when, exactly, did he have the time to practice cooking. All his dishes were delicious, and despite not knowing much about high-quality cuisine, Skipper knew the food Rico made would grant him first place should he ever participate in Master Chef.

This particular thought made him wonder about his team members - what they could've become if they weren't part of what they liked to call their 'organized vigilante corporation'; the pet project of founder-director Tom Parks and his friend, Eric Zoolander.

Rico could— no, he would _definitely_ be a world- class chef, should he ever want to be one. That, or he could be a walking Doraemon pocket. The team leader could imagine lots of people desire for that kind of utility. After several moments of reconsideration, however, Skipper decided that Rico probably wouldn't enjoy being treated like he was a useful object. This was a tad harsher in hindsight when he remembered that some of CPZ's own members look upon him like that. In his heart, Skipper promised himself that he will tell Rico never to let anyone look down on him. It will help the big man in the long run.

He then averted his gaze to the man across him again. Right in front of him was the sociopathic genius who, by all rights, should've been locked in padded cells within an asylum by now. Why is he not clad in a straitjacket then? Because CPZ took him in and gave him a chance; a chance to do what he does best, but for the good of many. And here is Kowalski, having a harmless dinner with them all instead of shrieking his throat dry in a cold, dark room.. What would've happened to the scientist if CPZ hadn't taken him in? This one, Skipper didn't want to think about.

Last but hardly least, the member of their team with most his lifespan still intact: Private. When compared to the three adults, it is obvious that the young boy had the most untapped potential. Skipper had seen kind, naïve teenagers before, but Private took it to a whole new level. The kid stayed pure and unblemished, despite spending his days with people whose lives were cluttered with things they weren't proud of. His page was one of the two clean ones left in the big book of New York's CPZ; a tabula rasa surrounded by a multitude of crinkled, yellow pages littered with ink blots. People usually start determining what their future occupation will be when they reach adolescence. However, Skipper could not recall an instance Private told him what he wanted to be. Does the boy have any personal dreams and goals, he wondered. Maybe his 'dream' is to be a vigilante, like he already was? Skipper's mind went back to the tiny bit of conversation he had with the adolescent yesterday. Private said that there was 'no reason' he wanted to join CPZ. If only because of his paranoia Skipper suspected that Private did have a reason, but chose not to tell. Skipper made a mental note to ask the boy himself later - force it out, if he must.

Too far lost in his own thought the military man did not register Rico's departure to the kitchen, nor Kowalski leaving the dining room saying he wanted to take a bath. This left the team leader with the exact person he wanted to talk to - the youngest member of the team. Private tilted his head sideways, trying to take a look at Skipper. The boy was rather curious as to why the older man seemed particularly thoughtful at this time of the day. Perhaps it had something to do with the intel they got from Miss Tyler, he pondered. Private had half the thought to wave his hand in front of Skipper's eyes, but decided that he will not risk irritating the man. Instead, the boy just stood up and took his plate into his hand, along with the older man's empty mug. "I'll take this to the back, Skipper." Not bothering to wait for an unexistent reply, the child immediately made his way to the kitchen to join Rico.

By the time Skipper had snapped out of his own mind, he was alone in the dining room with half an empty plate, nothing to drink from, no-one to talk to and less to think about. Silently berating himself for being absent-minded, the ex-soldier got up and made his way to the bedroom.

Not long after he swung the door open the man noticed that Private's phone was left on the bed and it was ringing. Skipper knew that the caller must be Maurice, so he picked the thing up and pressed. "Looking for Kowalski?"

_"Hello Skipper," _came a familiar voice from the other side. _"Can you just get me to him? I need to go back to Mort as soon as possible."_

"Of course." He went at a leisurely pace toward the corner where the door to the bathroom was at. After knocking twice, he cracked the plastic door open a bit - just enough for his hand to be able to go through, along with the phone. "Hey, Kowalski. It's Maurice on the comm."

"Leave it on the sink!" A voice filtered out from inside the bathroom.

Rolling his sapphire blue eyes, Skipper stepped into the damp room, taking care not to slip on a puddle of water on the ceramic floor. He could make out his second-in-command's figure from behind the glass partition. Despite the thick fog the strategist's dark silhouette was a clear cut against the white of the steam. Although he felt inappropriate for this, Skipper couldn't help but wonder if Kowalski was as skinny as he looked. Even with the added bulk of his lab jacket, the Polish man still came off as willowy. It took few seconds for Skipper to decide that he probably didn't want to know anyway. Placing the phone on the dry sink, as requested, Skipper hurriedly made his way out of the bathroom, although not before he pressed another button. "I put this on speakerphone, so talk to him, will you? And I'm sorry Maurice, but you're going to hear running water for the rest of the call." Without anymore delays, the team captain immediately left.

_"...really?"_

"Can't blame him," Kowalski laughed as he scrubbed his forearm. "I wouldn't want to hold a phone up for a showering person."

_"I _so_ did not need that mental image. Anyway, I have everything you asked for."_

"Speak, then. I'll take notes."

A mocking laughter. _"On what? Water?"_

"You underestimate me."

_"Fine, fine. At least turn the shower down. It's too loud; I can barely hear you talk."_

Kowalski then twisted the knob in front of him, reducing the water's flow. "Done. Now, you did say you needed to see Mort after this?"

_"He couldn't get enough of Aesop."_

"I sympathize. Make it quick so the boy doesn't have to wait longer than necessary."

_"I e-mailed the list of murders you wanted. Also, firstborn daughter of Sulivan and Randi Tyler, sibling to Mike Tyler... am I talking about the right Celia Tyler here?"_

"You are. Please, go on."

_"Okay. I got tons of stuff here, so if we want to minimize wasted time, tell me the specific bits you need."_

Kowalski laughed. "And if I want them all?"

_"You ass."_

"Don't be like that, boy. All I need is a record of misconduct and anything related from thereon. Our first priority is gang-related activity. I believe you did research on that as a preemptive measure."

_"You know me too well, dammit. Let's see what we have on misconduct... She was caught drunk driving twice; the second one killed a guy who's part of the Forest Gate Rats_—_ that was the one you told me to look for earlier, wasn't it?"_

"Yes it was," Kowalski replied, noting how their male interogatee did not say anything about his girlfriend killing one of his buddies. Perhaps he didn't know? "Mike Tyler was one of them."

_"I'm guessing it's not a coincidence then if I tell you she's a member of the Rats' rival gang, the Homerton Hornets."_

"Oh, you're telling me what I already know."

_"You could've told me that sooner! I could have saved fifteen minutes looking for stuff on that one gang. You have no idea how hard it is just to find public information about these Hornets that's not a speculation or entirely made-up."_

Kowalski frowned, eyes closed as he rinsed the shampoo off his raven hair. "How concea— pft! Sorry, ate some shampoo. Don't laugh. As I was saying, how concealed are they?"

_"Very. There's not much info, and when there's one out in the open, the traffic is so sparse you just can't be sure it's 100% true."_

"I'm guessing it was a citizen journalist's site."

_"Not really, but close enough. It's a blog owned by a supposed ex-gangster who lives in London. He talks about the active gangs around the city and peels them off one by one; where they are based, what they do... even avoidance tactics. I chose not to include this as certified intel since cross-referencing proves that some of the stuff in his blog is incorrect."_

"But you did find a dependable source."

_"Yep. I may have overheated the search engine for that, but damn if it ain't worth it. I found a site that just screams Homerton Hornets."_

"A site? Like, an official gang site?"

_"Last time I've seen something like this is when we're doing cross-hacking exercises with those guys from the Tokyo branch. Apparently, cyber gangs are getting extremely popular over there since the last few months. You don't see lots of those in the UK, so it kind of pops out."_

"I assume you hacked in."

_"Well I had to check. The site is passlocked, the IP address is masked; virtually undetectable by non-specific search engines. Maybe this is why you don't see a lot of them in the open sea."_

"So we're up against professionals?"

_"Nope. They look pro on the outside, but under all that they're really just cool-looking noobs. I thought SQL injection wouldn't be effective this time, but their script is bad and their database input is unsanitized. Seriously, it's almost like they never anticipated a hacker attack. Field mapping was easy as hell, then I just snowballed the lane from there and boom, password acquired. Want to know what else is funny?"_

"What?"

_"The site itself. I'll send you a hyperlink and a readme about the site. Do yourself a favor and don't enter before reading what I sent you."_

"It's the safety measures, isn't it."

_"Yeah. Your IP address will be instantly blocked if you submit the wrong password. And once you're blocked, you're blocked for good."_

The scientist nodded, although he knew that his conversational partner was incapable of seeing his reaction. "Thank you. Is there any other gang-related matter?"

_"She's involved in the murder of Mike Tyler, although I'm guessing you already know that one."_

Kowalski was about to grab the water knob but his hand stopped in its tracks. "...no. No, I don't know that part." He willed his limb to continue the interrupted action. "What was that again?"

_"This is disturbing as hell, but Celia helped in the murder of her own brother." _A pained sigh. _"I... I don't want to think about it. It's too_—_ why are you laughing?"_

No reply came from the scientist, who was now trying to support his weight against the slippery walls of the shower. In the midst of the running water and wafting steam sat the pale man from whose mouth spouted maniacal laughter laced with sheer unbridled _glee_. "Incredible!" The tall man shrieked as his arms gave out against the frictionless walls. Kowalski slipped down to the cold floor of the shower. The impact seemed as if it hurt, but if it did, the genius did not show it. "And here I thought there would never be another one; simply incredible!"

_"The hell... You still with me there?"_

"Oh, I'm quite present, yes." Still laughing, the man heaved himself up from the ceramic floor. Loud cackles soon dissipated into soft giggles. "I was just... reminiscing about something." He added, turned the water off. "That aside, is there anything else you think is interesting?"

His inquiry was initially greeted with silence. _"Look, I don't know what goes on in your head, but can you please not bring it up in front of other people? It's kind of..."_

"Disconcerting. I'm aware of it. Well?"

_"There's pretty much nothing else worth your time. My advice? You get into the site as soon as possible. I've got no idea what your mission's about, what your parameters are or how you plan to complete it, but enumeration_—_"_

"Is always key." Kowalski carefully stepped out of the glass cubicle, grabbing a nearby towel on the way. "You say that so many times, I'm quite sure everyone remembers." Wrapping the piece of cloth around his abdomen, the genius walked towards the sink. "Thanks again, Maurice. Your help in this matter is much appreciated."

_"You say that to everybody you work with."_

"Just the ones valuable enough to keep around," was the cool response. Despite the implications of his words, the man's tone was nonchalant. "I think you shouldn't keep Mort waiting."

There was no response from the other side. He gently picked the handy device up, cradling it in his palm. Absently putting the phone next to his right ear, the Polish man stayed in that position for several moments. Monotone beeps traveled in waves, drumming against the tiny membrane in his ear. Kowalski briefly contemplated if it is possible to brainwash someone through replays of monotone voices before deciding that he can experiment about it when they get back to New York. He quickly dried himself and threw on his clothes, then exited the bathroom.

The lieutenant was immediately greeted with quite an uncommon sight: Private was sleeping on his sides with a book under his arm and a Lunacorn doll beside his head. Next to him, still on the same bed was the team's weapons expert, Rico, who was also fast asleep and had his left arm slung on top of the boy. On a first glance, it was as if they were brothers hugging each other in slumber. It was an undeniably adorable sight... to most. To the genius, it was one of the sentimental moments he hoped he would never have the chance to go through, as it would be very awkward.

Deliberately averting his sight from the scene, Kowalski silently wondered why on earth would the two younger men even agree to rest on the same bed when they have exactly four. Sighing for no particular reason, he climbed onto a bed of his own and dragged the covers on top of his body. Retelling himself all the intel he received on automation, the Polish man exhaled sharply as he absently ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair.

A second right before his mind succumbs to the dunes of golden dream sand, he noticed that the room was devoid of anyone whose name starts with an 'S'.

...

**A/N: **Oh, man. That's such a lame way to end a chapter. I'm so sorry guys. Anyway, I've been thinking my writing skills got kind of rusty, so I decided to do some free-writing; that means writing down whatever came into mind. It turns out that the results are... interesting. I'll show you in the form of chapter thirteen.

_mary_: Private is not alone. Since this is his first time to the mall, there is a probability that Rico might like shopping as well. Besides, Skipper is the only one shown to actively dislike it. You've seen the two people in past chapters, even if only for a brief moment. Sterile disposal, if you would.

_Batmanskipper_: I'll give you this much: there is something between Phil and Lulu. But because I confirmed his loyalty to CPZ, you'll just have to guess how, exactly, are they related and how Lulu got that bit of inside information.

_guest_: Umm... what you just asked is a material reserved for far later in the story. I guess you'll just have to be patient and wait.

_LoverOfThings_: This chapter is way more toned down, I'd say. The little boy, huh. To be honest, that particular scene just crossed my mind, and I thought it would be appropriate for him to see it as a dumb way to die. Yes, that was a shout out. One more request to go!

...

_Reviews feed Mort.  
These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.  
It would be wise of you to follow their noble action._


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